Bertha involuntarily shivered. The officer backed out of the room, half saluted Detective Harris, and shut the door behind him.
Harris walked back to the table, reached for the tape recorder, and shut it off. He let out his breath slowly. Bertha could barely hear him swearing.
“Joe Morescki’s brother?” Bertha asked.
Harris nodded. “Twenty-seven years a good cop. He’s still a good cop, but...”
“But what?”
“Oh, he had a run of hard luck.”
“His son.”
Harris pointed at Bertha and shook his finger. “I shouldn’t be talking about it.”
“Come on, the man tried to threaten me.”
Harris shrugged. “Frank, Jr. had his mother’s good looks and his father’s brawn. They only had the one boy. His wife’s health was—delicate. The kid was everything to him. Died of a drug overdose. Car full of kids pulled over by the law. Frankie swallowed a balloon. Broke in his stomach.”
Bertha waited. She remembered Jimmy Reed and thought how fragile life really was.
“Then he lost his wife. I thought Frank would fall apart then. And if it weren’t for his anger he might have.” Harris shook his head. “He wouldn’t have come in here like that in the old days. We all cut him a lot of slack. I guess he takes advantage of it.”
*
The interview took the biggest part of the working day, so the county building was closed, and Bertha asked Alvin to stand in line and file Pat Reed’s suit in the morning. Alvin told her that Aunt Lucy had called, but when she tried to call Grandma’s, no one answered. As she listened to the eighth, ninth, and tenth rings, she wondered how she’d lived all those years with Grandma and no answering machine. She finally gave up and stopped by Grandma’s house on the way to Toni Matulis’s trailer.
They were out back, Aunt Lucy trimming the edge of the sidewalk while Grandma supervised from a lawn chair. “If you come for supper again, you got to cook,” Aunt Lucy said. “Mom’s been keeping me busy.”
“I have plans for dinner. I got a message you called.”
“Just wanted to make arrangements with you about the morning train.”
“You’re taking the eight forty-five, right? I’ll be here by eight.”
Aunt Lucy leaned against the trimmer and wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her garden glove. “Be nice to get back home.”
“I can imagine.” Then in a softer tone Bertha added, “I appreciate the help with Grandma.”
Aunt Lucy met Bertha’s eyes. “She’s my mother, ain’t she? You call me anytime you need help. If I can’t come, I’ll send one of the kids. I’ve been leaving too much to you. I can see that now.”
Bertha was embarrassed. “It’s no bother. I love her like a mother.”
Aunt Lucy nodded and leaned close to Bertha. “That’s what we all got to remember.”
Bertha sat with Grandma for a while. They didn’t talk. A breeze had picked up from the southwest. Bertha looked at her watch. Toni was expecting her. She touched Grandma’s arm. “I got to go.”
Grandma’s wrinkled hand moved as if to brush something away. She didn’t look at Bertha but seemed engrossed watching Aunt Lucy work on the weeds. Bertha leaned over and hugged her. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Bertha stopped at the gas station and put her last five dollars in the tank. The wind was picking up. Cool gusts rearranged the heavy, hot air. As Bertha turned into the trailer court, she heard thunder.
Toni swung the door open and beamed at her. Bertha stepped into the trailer, then into Toni’s arms. The air smelled of home cooking. Toni’s body was warm against Bertha. Her arms circled Bertha’s waist, and Bertha rested her chin on the top of Toni’s head.
Suddenly Toni disentangled herself and stepped back. “Baby, is that a piece?”
Bertha remembered the gun tucked securely in the small of her back and nodded.
“Now what the hell did you go and get a weapon for?”
“I feel safer. That’s all.”
Toni shook her finger under Bertha’s nose. “If you can’t use it when you need to, you’re better off without it. A criminal sees a gun and then you hesitate—you’re history.”
“I can use it.”
Tears stood in Toni’s eyes. “That’s what they all say.”
Chapter Thirty
Heavy rain battered the trailer roof. Thunder rolled in the distance. The air inside was rich with the aromas of baked chicken and leftover spaghetti. The three of them sat around the small kitchen table eating. Doree chattered about swimming lessons and a bike she wanted, pushing her food around on her plate and ignoring Bertha. “Eat that salad,” Toni said.
Doree shook her head. “Broccoli makes your breath stink.”
“A carrot then. Come on, one bite.”
Doree reached for the small salad plate, extracted a slice of carrot, and shoved the whole thing in her mouth. “Can I watch TV now?” she asked, chomping.
Toni frowned at her. “Go—but no cookie later.”
Doree scooted off the food-spotted unabridged dictionary that boosted her chair, tossed her paper napkin on her plate, and left the room. When the sounds of the TV reached them, Toni sighed. “Sorry. She can be a pill sometimes.”
Bertha chuckled nervously. “Don’t worry about it. Most kids don’t like vegetables. Dinner’s wonderful. You’re quite a cook.”
“Thanks. She’s generally not this rude to company.”
Bertha reached for Toni’s hand and squeezed it. “Maybe she senses how much I like you.”
Toni smiled. “I want you to like her, too. We’re a package deal.”
“I do like her. I just have one question.”
“What’s that?”
“Is it true what she said about broccoli?”
Toni laughed then and picked up her fork. “I don’t know enough about that to make a case one way or another, Counselor.”
We are a package deal echoed in Bertha’s mind; it sounded serious, yet logical. Life was hard enough for lesbian couples, especially racially mixed couples; having a child involved would be topping on the mountain of built-in problems. Was that where this was headed then, a relationship? Many things about Toni Matulis were very attractive. Part of Bertha couldn’t believe her luck, couldn’t believe she was actually functioning and holding her own in this—whatever it was they were doing. Bertha wanted to go slow, of course, to be sure.
She thought about Colleen, the years in college, setting up a home together, starting their careers. Even after the sex cooled down, she’d loved Colleen passionately. They’d talked about growing old together. The relationship had lasted nineteen years, if you counted the last two years when they didn’t speak without fighting, when Bertha stayed away from home doing things that Colleen had warned against.
Bertha remembered the night she came home from the treatment center to the half-empty apartment—all of Colleen’s were things gone, as were some of her own. Bertha had hoped she could convince Colleen to come back and then found out Colleen had someone new. She’d wondered, then as now, if her pain was the inevitable price of passion. She remembered feeling alone and, like hunger, an empty sense of her own unconnectedness. She’d sat near the partially frosted window that first night home, watching a storm outside—watching snowflakes come at her out of the dark.
“Bertha.” Toni startled her.
“Huh?”
“Where’d you go?”
“Sorry.” Bertha said. “It’s been a long day.”
“So, tell me about your talk with Harris. Why did you go see him? Does he have any leads?”
Bertha told Toni about her visit to Cal Mossman’s apartment, about the paisley tie and the wrecked living room. She continued in a soft monotone about the conversation with Pop Wilson and the entire afternoon in an interrogation room downtown. The television droned on in the next room. A cartoon show, Bullwinkle or something, was on. Doree was quiet.
Toni leaned close to B
ertha. “He thinks there are two murderers?”
Bertha shrugged. “If what he told me about the killer’s MO is true, then I’d have to agree. Say, whoever killed Joe Morescki was related to, or in business with, Mark Mossman. Say someone in Morescki’s camp wanted to retaliate.”
“Even if all of that’s true, what the hell does it have to do with you and your grandma?”
“My theory does leave one or two holes.”
“One or two.” Toni’s voice rose slightly. “What about Kim Cornwell and Madame Socorro? Who’s been watching your house? What’s Sally Morescki hiding? Why is her father-in-law so touchy?”
“Speaking of the old man, I met the other brother today. He’s on the police force.”
“Frank Morescki. I’ve never met him—thought he’d retired.”
“You don’t know him?”
Toni shook her head. “Not really. I know of him.”
“Do you think you could find out more about him?”
“I could find a way to ask my partner. Pop’s been on the force since before I was born. Do you think Frank’s involved in this stuff?”
“I don’t know. He may have been a good cop at one time, but he’s a loose cannon now. Also, do you know anything about Morescki and Son Concrete?”
“It’s over on North MacArthur—on a corner,” Toni said. “He’s got about a half dozen trucks, nice brick office building—right next to Douglas Park.”
“I think I’ll drop in and see him.”
“Why?”
Bertha leaned back in her chair. “Because he doesn’t want me around. When I met Frank Morescki today downtown, he made pretty much the same threat his father made.”
Toni shook her finger under Bertha’s nose. “You be careful around that old bastard.”
“What bastard?” Doree was suddenly standing in the kitchen.
Toni turned toward the child quickly. “Is Rocky and His Friends over?”
Doree nodded.
“Then go get ready for your bath. I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Aw, Mom.” Doree stomped her foot.
“Go. Now.”
“I won’t bother you anymore.”
“Go.”
Hanging her head, Doree left the kitchen.
Bertha touched Toni’s wrist. “I better get going.”
“Can you stay until I get Doree to the sitter?”
Bertha felt exhilarated by the promise of time alone, yet worried. Where was the point of no return? Had they already passed it?
“Are you sure you don’t need the time for Doree?”
“I’ll take care of her bath. She’ll have me all to herself then. You could help me by stacking the dishes. With the two of us working together, I’ll have some free time after I get her next door.”
Bertha brushed her lips against Toni’s cheek. “Go then. I’ll do what I can in here.”
She watched Toni walk through the cluttered living room, turn off the TV, and continue down the narrow hallway. Bertha told herself she was a pushover. She had no will of her own; Toni was a master puppeteer who held the strings sewn into her wrists. The fundamental facts were plain: it had been a long time since she’d had any kind of a sex life; she’d never been with a woman sober, never known that feelings had such a solid, disquieting edge. They were frightening and new. Did Toni feel the same way? Was it normal? Was she losing her mind?
The rain had let up some; it ran down the outside of the kitchen window. Bertha leaned close and looked out toward the Jeep. Under the streetlamp on the corner, water stood in rippling puddles. She could see a few stars and parts of the moon scattered among the dark clouds.
Bertha scraped the dishes into the single sink and stacked them on the counter. She dampened the corner of a dishtowel and wiped off the table. She picked pieces of spaghetti and lettuce off the unabridged dictionary. The dishwasher was full. She decided to leave dirty dishes stacked on the counter and started hunting for the switch to the disposal. She turned the porch light on and off, then the light over the sink. She could hear Doree’s laughter from the bathroom.
After several minutes Bertha walked across the living room and called down the hallway, “Toni, where’s the switch to the garbage disposal?”
“I don’t have one,” said Toni over the sounds of the draining bathtub.
Bertha trudged back into the kitchen and looked into the sink. The drain was clogged with cold spaghetti and hunks of lettuce. She stuck her hand in the greasy mess and started digging it out.
*
Bertha pushed two pillows behind her and sat up in bed. She felt wet and tingling as she watched Toni walk back and forth in front of her, getting dressed.
Bertha stretched her arms over her head, yawned, and said, “Girl, how can you walk after that?”
Toni smiled. “It gets my blood pumping.”
“I think it stops mine. Why don’t you call in sick and come back to bed?”
Toni stopped brushing her hair and turned around. “Are you kidding?”
Bertha laughed nervously, and said, “Sure.” She hesitated, then added, “Halfway.”
Toni knelt on the bed next to her. “I’m off this weekend. How about we set something up?”
Bertha didn’t know if she could promise anything because she didn’t know if she’d feel safe leaving Grandma alone. Aunt Lucy would go home in the morning. Grandma did pretty well on her own most of the time, but now didn’t feel like most of the time.
“What’s the matter?” Toni whispered in her ear.
“My life seems pretty unpredictable right now. I don’t know what the weekend will bring. I mean, I want to, but—”
Toni held up her hand. “We’ll just go with the flow.” She went back to the dresser and picked up her hairbrush.
Bertha started looking for her clothes. She finally found her shirt and pants in the hallway, one sock next to the bed, and the other under the blankets with her underpants.
When they were both dressed, Bertha pulled Toni close; the rough blue uniform tickled Bertha’s forearms. The kiss was so hard and passionate it stung.
Bertha ducked into the bathroom, washed her hands, and splashed water on her face. Her hair wasn’t mussed; she liked the way the new cut looked, short and dark with a dusting of gold on the ends. She adjusted her holster and pulled her T-shirt down to cover it. On the way out, she poked her head around the doorway again, just a quick look-see, a peek in the mirror to find out who was there.
*
Bertha drove home mechanically, shifting gears and accelerating. The warm evening air blew against her damp neck and arms; wet pavement hissed beneath her tires. She wasn’t aware of her course—didn’t notice the lights of the taverns that drove her nuts from time to time. The sky had cleared, and the moon was almost full. Bertha thought about making love to Toni, about the aggressive way Toni had reciprocated. Something had awakened in Bertha; it was as if a part of her had been in hibernation and, on waking, was restless and hungry.
When she parked under the dripping trees in back of the house and shut off the engine, she saw Rhonda Green’s babysitter, Megan, sitting on the back steps with the boys. Jerome stood, ran across the yard, and called to her, “Hi, Bertha.”
Bertha touched the child’s bare shoulder. He was taller and rounder than Doree. At least one kid on the planet liked her. Maybe she could get a letter of reference from him, something that would let Doree know she wasn’t a total loser.
“Hi, yourself. What’s up?”
Jerome took her hand and led her toward the porch. “Megan sick.”
Bertha could hear the tremor in his voice. It was too much like the day she found Rhonda lying in blood. He had come to her that day, waited on the back porch for her.
She put one foot on the bottom step and asked, “What’s going on?”
Megan tried to smile; her eyelids looked heavy. She was barefoot, dressed in a pair of shorts, a white T-shirt pulled tight across her swollen belly. She shrugged. “I think it�
�s the flu. My little brother had it last week. I been puking. I ache all over. Their mother won’t be home till midnight. They’re ready to be put to bed. Could you watch them for a while?”
“How will you get home?”
“I can walk,” said Megan, brushing a mosquito away from her face.
“Get the boys in the Jeep.” Bertha motioned to her. “I’ll give you a ride.”
Megan didn’t protest. She stood slowly, brushing her braids back over her shoulder. She helped Bertha buckle the boys in the backseat. The tired baby whimpered.
“What we going to do when Megan goes home?” asked Jerome.
“You’re coming back to your house and going to bed,” Bertha said.
“Mama always lets me stay up.”
Bertha started the Jeep, put it in gear, and looked over her shoulder at Jerome. “It’s after ten o’clock, bud. No way.”
Bertha noticed with some satisfaction that Jerome yawned several times during the drive to take the babysitter home. Returning, she pulled the Jeep behind the house, got out, and fumbled with Miguel’s seat belt. He’d scooted down and lay across the buckle. At length the thing popped open. Miguel cried out softly, and when she balanced him on her hip, he laid his sleepy head on her shoulder and put his thumb in his mouth. Inside Bertha changed the baby’s diaper and put him in his crib. Jerome stood beside her and waited.
“What do you do at bedtime?” Bertha asked.
“I get cookies.”
“Wash your face and hands and brush your teeth. Then I’ll see about a snack.”
“Mama gives me cookies before teeth.”
“Okay.” Bertha raised one eyebrow. “Wash. Cookies. Teeth. Now scoot.”
“Aw, man.”
Jerome trudged to the bathroom. When he emerged minutes later, he wore only his white jockey shorts.
Bertha let him have two vanilla wafers and a glass of milk, then shooed him off to bed. She sat down and picked up the remote control from the cluttered end table. The apartment was in kid-neat order: toys stacked in the corner, a coloring book open on the coffee table, a tiny toy soldier under the swivel rocker, cloth diapers folded and stacked in a laundry basket at the end of the couch. She flipped on the TV, switched to an X-Files rerun, and stretched out.
Nine Nights on the Windy Tree Page 25
