Nine Nights on the Windy Tree

by Martha Miller

  “We been playing catch,” Jerome said.

  Bertha asked, “Where’s your mama?”

  “She’s at work. We got Megan today. She and Miguel are taking a nap.”

  “I need to talk to Mr. Mossman alone for a few minutes.”

  Jerome shrugged. “I got things to do, too.”

  Bertha watched the child turn and walk toward the back porch. A gust of warm air whipped around the corner of the house as he climbed the steps. Though the sky was growing darker and she could smell the imminent rain in the air, Bertha fought the temptation to call after him and promise a game of catch later.

  “Nice kid,” said Cal.

  Bertha nodded.

  Jerome opened his back door and went inside.

  “Reminds me of me when I was coming up,” Cal added.

  “When were you a six-year-old black boy?”

  The pale skin around Cal’s eyes and mouth turned into a hundred wrinkles as he smiled. Bertha saw that the broken front tooth had been fixed. A dark pair of small, round sunglasses, covered his eyes. He was clean shaven. Without a beard, his face looked thin. She remembered Masey and the speed.

  “Everything’s still black and white to you, ain’t it?” Cal said. “You know, some experiences have nothing to do with race. My mother worked when she could. I was on my own a lot. I used to get a kick out of it when any grownup paid attention. The only grownups around were pretty fucked up.”

  “You’re breaking my heart.” Bertha was perspiring, but a spot in her chest was cold.

  Cal hesitated, then said, “You wanted to see me after all this time just to insult me?”

  Bertha glared at him, her heart racing. Her concern for Jerome had made her forget her fear. Anxiety was back now, in force. “I need to talk to you.”

  “About what?”

  “Want to come in?”

  Cal pulled a metal cigarette case from his back pocket. “You smoke these days?”

  She shook her head no.

  “You mind?”

  “What are you smoking?”

  He smiled again. “You’re a little nervous, aren’t you, honey?”

  “I’m clean.”

  “No shit?” He sounded impressed.

  “Year and a half.”

  “I could stick to Pall Malls.”

  Bertha didn’t want cigarette smoke inside, but she motioned to Cal at the last minute she remembered the back door.

  She turned to him and said, “We’ve got to go around. This door’s busted.”

  Inside was cooler. She’d left the window air conditioner on in her bedroom to work through the hot afternoon. She tossed a handful of mail on the coffee table and saw that she had messages on the machine.

  “Nice place,” said Cal, looking around. “The pretty blonde still with you?”

  “I live alone these days.”

  Cal nodded, put an unfiltered cigarette between his lips, and lit it. “How long you been alone?”

  Bertha didn’t answer but turned her back to him and went to the kitchen. She brought a saucer from her unmatched set of dishes and handed it to him. In the few seconds she’d been gone, he had sprawled out in her favorite chair.

  “You forgot the cup.”

  “Use it as an ashtray.” Bertha sat on the couch where Kim Cornwell had lounged two nights before. She leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees, watching as Cal relaxed in a halo of smoke, his dark glasses still in place. Finally she said, “I heard you worked for Morescki and Son.”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Was it a secret?”

  He smiled. “What’s going on, Bertha?”

  “You hear about Joe Morescki’s murder?”

  Cal shrugged. “I heard.”

  “It happened in my office.”

  Cal stubbed his cigarette out on the saucer, leaned forward, and rested it on the coffee table. He pulled off the sunglasses and squinted at her. His eyes were steel blue. She hadn’t remembered that and wondered if she’d ever seen them. “That don’t have nothing to do with me,” he said in a cold, gravelly tone.

  “Good. Then you won’t mind telling me about your experience with the Moresckis.”

  “As a matter of fact, I do mind.”

  “I’m trying to find out what Morescki was doing in my office and who slit his throat.”

  “Slit his throat, huh?” Cal pulled out the metal cigarette case again. “Sounds like someone was pretty upset with him. Very messy business. Most people I know woulda just popped him.”

  “Why would anyone want to kill him?”

  Cal gestured widely. “People come and people go. Guys like Morescki think they’re immune. Maybe it caught up with him.”

  “You work for Joe or the old man?”

  Cal hesitated, then said, “My brother Mark worked for the old man. He got me on. Mostly I did special jobs, for everybody.”

  “So you worked for Joe sometimes?”

  “Sometimes.” Cal opened the metal cigarette case, fished around inside, and extracted a slender joint. He put it between his lips, clicked his Bic lighter, and drew deeply. He was still holding his breath when he leaned forward to pass it to her.

  “I quit, remember?”

  He smiled and croaked, “Yeah. I remember.”

  Bertha watched him. Her lips were dry, and her palms were sweating. The room filled with the smell that Bertha always associated with leaves burning in the fall—before the city outlawed leaf-burning. She relaxed. She preferred this to the cigarette smoke and was surprised that his act of defiance gradually calmed her. With the drug, Cal Mossman might become less guarded. He might make a mistake. She watched him, waiting.

  Finally Cal said, “You talked to the old lady?”

  “Who?”

  “Sally. You talk to Sally?”

  “Briefly. You think she knows something?”

  Cal slid the dark glasses on again. “Sally had as many reasons to want him dead as anyone. Maybe more.”

  “How’d you know her?”

  Cal shrugged. “I picked up some packages for her. Drove her around sometimes. You know, to that boutique she runs, the bank, her tarot reader.”

  “Like a chauffeur?”

  “Yeah.” Cal nodded. “Just for a while when she wrecked the Lexus and it was in the shop. She don’t usually have someone drive her, but Joe insisted. Like punishment, you know?”

  Bertha watched Cal draw on the joint again and hold his breath. At last she said, “She went to a tarot reader?”

  Calvin’s voice was hoarse. “Goes every Wednesday. That Madame Soccoro.”

  Bertha wondered if she could get high just being in the same room with the pot smoke. The mention of Madame Soccoro’s name surprised her. She had to be careful about her next question.

  Calvin took a last toke, flicked off the ash, wet his fingers, and extinguished the joint. He dropped the large roach back into the metal case. “What’s in it for me if I answer your questions?”

  “I helped you in the past,” Bertha said. “Plenty of times. Answer my questions, and the score is even.”

  “Woo.” Cal shook his hands in the air, mocking her. “I been losing sleep over our uneven score.”

  Bertha leaned back on the couch and stretched out her long legs, trying to appear calm.

  Cal said, “I guess you forgot about all the snow I provided back then?”

  Bertha shrugged. “That’s the trouble with addicts. Bad memories.”

  Cal dug in his jeans pocket and extracted a thin ivory instrument. He held it up, meeting her eyes, smiling. The blade sprung upward, slicing the air. Bertha watched him slowly start cleaning his thumbnail.

  “Is Mark still working for the old man?” Bertha asked.

  “Naw. I told you there were some problems.”

  “What problems?”

  “Money problems. Jelly cleaned house. You got to do that sometimes.”

  “I heard you guys quit.”

  Cal shrugged. “Quit. Fired. I
t’s a fine line.”

  Bertha watched him deftly handle the switchblade. She remembered sticking her fingers through the gash in Joe Morescki’s throat into the bloody ooze. What was she doing with this guy in her living room?

  She resisted the urge to squirm and asked, “Do you know anything about the East Side Development project?”

  Cal seemed to shut down. He stared at the blade and simply said, “Nope.”

  “You think Mark would talk to me?” Bertha asked.

  “Why should he?”

  Bertha couldn’t think of a reason in the world. Actually, she was starting to wonder why Cal hadn’t gotten up and left the minute he realized she didn’t want to score. Maybe he wanted to tell her something. All she had to do was ask the right question. The only one he’d divulged anything about was Sally Morescki. She took a shot. “Had you met Mrs. Morescki before the chauffeuring job?”

  “No.”

  It wasn’t much, but it was an answer. “How long did those duties last?”

  “Until the car was fixed. About six weeks. They had to order parts.”

  “You drove her to the boutique?”

  “Everywhere she went alone. Even that psychic.”

  “Right,” said Bertha. “Madame Soccoro.”

  “Most people only got a psychic on the phone. Sally visited one every Wednesday,” he repeated. “I figured she needed to know a lot about the future for some reason.”

  So, he wanted to tell her about Sally Morescki and Madame Soccoro. Bertha felt uneasy. This wasn’t the information she’d expected to get from Cal Mossman.

  She asked, “You ever go in with her? You ever meet the tarot reader?”

  “Me? Naw. There’s a bar a few blocks away. I’d drop her off and toss back a few. At the end of an hour, I’d go back and pick her up.”

  “What makes you think she wanted to kill her husband?”

  “She sort of told me.”

  Bertha couldn’t imagine Sally telling Cal Mossman anything. “Mrs. Morescki talked to you about her marriage?”

  “They’d been fighting,” said Cal, closing the switchblade. He stretched his right leg out and returned the knife to his jeans pocket. “She was talking more to herself than me. I, you know, didn’t take her seriously. I said you can’t stay mad at a man with all that money for long.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said maybe I didn’t understand who had the money.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I asked her, but she glared at me and shut up.”

  “You said they were fighting. Did you hear what about?”

  “I did.”

  Bertha waited. Finally she said, “What?”

  “Old Addie Brannon and her long-departed son Curtis.”

  “My grandma? My father?”

  Calvin nodded slowly. “I thought they was your kin. Your Daddy’s dead, ain’t he?”

  Bertha heard herself answer, “Since I was a child.” She stared over Cal’s shoulder at the wall.

  Cal said, “I been wondering since that day, what those two rich people have to do with your family. Imagine my shock when Morescki ended up dead in your office. I halfway figured you done it. If you didn’t, my guess would be Sally.”

  Bertha tried to remember she couldn’t trust what Cal was telling her. He was a little too eager to mention Joe and Sally’s fight. He had been waiting to drop her family’s name. But why? What did any of this matter to him? She remembered the cold light that had gleamed in his eyes.

  Cal said, “You look like you’re not feeling too hot, sis. Can I get you some water? Want some weed or some blow?”

  Bertha glared at him.

  He threw back his head and laughed. “That’s the look. That’s the very look the Morescki woman gave me.”

  “I think you should leave.”

  “No more questions?”

  “No.”

  “You throwing me out?”

  Bertha hesitated, then said, “Yeah, I guess I’m throwing you out.”

  “Now you’ve hurt my feelings,” Cal mocked her. “I tell you what, Miss Clean-and-Sober. You’ll call me again. You’ll want me some day, and I just might not be there.”

  Bertha hoped her addictive alarm didn’t show in her face. The panic surprised her. Then she remembered the conversation with her old friend Jewel the day before.

  She said, “You’re not the only distributor, you know.”

  “That’s right, baby. But a person could get hurt changing brands.” Cal stood and laid the cigarette case on the coffee table. He crossed the room, turned to her at the door, and said, “So long, sis.” Then he was gone.

  “I’m not your sister,” Bertha said to the empty room.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Bertha leaned back on the sofa, crossing her legs at the ankle. She could see the tiny red light flashing on the answering machine. The living room was gloomy. Outside the evening was growing darker. No rose-colored sunset tonight. Too many clouds. The wind had stopped, though. Maybe that was a good sign. Bertha needed to check on Grandma but couldn’t seem to move. She imagined herself standing and walking across the room to the phone; she put energy into the image but still sat there. Fatigue settled in like an extra weight and she yawned.

  Bertha thought she should be making notes about the interview, checking the answering machine, connecting with Alvin, and, most important, phoning Aunt Lucy. Somewhere she’d heard that when you’re tired, rest first and you’ll be able to do everything. Where had that come from? Probably an AA meeting. She should have called her sponsor. She checked her watch. It was eight thirty‑five. She’d just missed the lesbian meeting at the North Street Women’s Center. She felt uneasy. Missing her favorite meeting didn’t bother her, and vaguely she sensed that it should.

  The ringing phone sounded far away. Bertha heard her own voice on the answering machine. She opened her eyes. The room was totally dark. She was lying on the couch, eye level with the coffee table and Cal Mossman’s metal cigarette case. If she was going to stay out of that thing, she needed to get rid of it somehow.

  Bertha heard the machine beep, then silence. She thought whoever it was might hang up, but finally a woman’s voice said, “Okay, Bertha. I get the picture.”

  Bertha sat up slowly, trying to make sense of the message.

  The woman went on. “Just forget it. I guess I made a mistake, and I’m starting to find this whole thing exceedingly embarrassing.”

  Bertha rose and started across the room. She stumbled in the darkness, striking her shin against the corner of the coffee table as Toni Matulis said, “I won’t bother you again.”

  Bertha grabbed the phone. “Hello?”

  There was only the dial tone.

  Bertha hung up, put her weight on the leg that was screaming with pain, and rubbed it. Had she broken the skin? Was it bleeding? She felt miffed by the phone message. What right did Toni have to get upset? Why wasn’t she wondering if Bertha was dead or alive? Anything was possible right now. Was Bertha supposed to call her back and apologize—apologize for what? She was too edgy to try to talk right then. Toni was obviously upset, and Bertha’s mood would make things worse. She could call Toni in the morning.

  Bertha limped across the room, locked the front door, felt her way to the bedroom, and fell across the unmade bed. She was asleep moments later, fully clothed.

  *

  The sound of thunder awoke her. Bertha lay still for a moment with her eyes closed, wondering what day it was. She had a dry, sour taste in her mouth, her bladder was full, and she was hungry. She heard the wind rattling the window above the air conditioner and rain splashing on the metal cover. She tried to move and realized she was wrapped cocoon-like in her blanket. The bedroom was too cold. She blinked and opened her eyes, then squinted at the blurry, luminous numbers on the clock. It was five thirty. She told herself that the alarm would go off in thirty minutes and that she could to go back to sleep, but her bladder wouldn’t let her relax. />
  Bertha fought her way out of the blankets and rolled to a standing position. A pain shot up her right leg. She could see her bedroom through the open door as she sat on the stool with her pants around her ankles. Long shadows fell across the room. The corners were totally dark. The sheets were half torn off the bed. Boxes from the search through the closet for Cal Mossman’s phone number were stacked against the far wall. Clothes covered what was left of the floor.

  “Bertha Brannon,” she said to herself, “your life is getting unmanageable.”

  She stripped off her clothes and stood under the warm spray of the shower for a long time, then was hard put to find a clean towel. She remembered Toni Matulis blowing her nose on the best one. It was somewhere on the bedroom floor, maybe still on the bed. She finally grabbed a hand towel and patted herself dry the best she could.

  Back in the bedroom, Bertha gathered up laundry and tossed it in a corner for later. She found her favorite nightshirt in the tangled sheets, pulled it on, and then headed for the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee. As she stood over the sink, rinsing out the pot, she tried to remember when she’d last made the coffee. Then it came to her, Toni Matulis, Monday morning. Now Toni was angry with her about something.

  She wondered again what day it was. When she’d been on speed, she never knew. She woke up at all hours, lost track of time, and neglected the simplest things: laundry, food, and people.

  She decided to cook a big breakfast, eat, and then get dressed for the day. After that she’d call her sponsor.

  Within twenty minutes, the coffee pot was gurgling, a half dozen link sausages were sizzling in a small skillet, and the toast was down when she saw the note taped to the window on the back door. She tried to read it through the glass but couldn’t. She opened the bottom drawer next to the refrigerator, pulled out the claw hammer, and finally extracted the two nails that had served in place of a lock.

  The note was damp. Had it been there all night?

  She turned it over.

  Bertha, please knock on my door when you are up in the morning. I need to talk to you.

  Rhonda.

  Bertha looked toward the living room. The answering machine was still flashing. Behind her she heard the toast pop up. Her belly felt as if was touching her backbone. She decided that if the world came to an end because she took twenty minutes to eat, then it would just have to happen. She set the note on the corner of the kitchen table, closed the back door the best she could, and got the eggs out of the refrigerator.