Bertha called to Alvin, who was cleaning up the bathroom.
He appeared in the doorway, his necktie loosened, his yellow oxford shirt rolled up at the cuffs. “You okay?”
“I need to get going,” she said.
“You need to take a major pain pill and go to bed.”
“Can’t have anything stronger than over-the-counter. Sobriety, remember?”
“Are you in pain?”
“No,” she lied. “I promised Grandma I’d spend the night over there.”
“How about hungry? I could cook something.”
“It’s getting dark,” she said a little too loud. “My grandma’s alone.”
Alvin took this in stride. He fixed her with a stern eye and said, “It’s probably best you don’t spend the night here anyway. Ms. Cornwell seems to come and go at will.”
The thought of Kim Cornwell made Bertha’s head throb. “Would you get me some Tylenol?”
“Sure. Where do you keep it?”
“Check the carpet, right side of the bed.”
Alvin turned with a snippy, overdone sigh and disappeared into Bertha’s bedroom. Moments later he returned with three of the red-and-white gel caps. He drew a glass of water and set it all in front of her.
“This the cleaning lady’s month off?”
“It’s been a busy week,” Bertha said, tossing the pills into her mouth and taking a large gulp of the tepid water.
Alvin watched her and waited.
Bertha pushed herself up from the chair, and the room started to spin. She sat down.
Alvin rushed to her side. “Honey, you don’t look too good. I’m going to drive you to your grandma’s house, and Randy can pick me up there.”
“If you do that, Grandma will know something is wrong.”
Alvin placed both hands on his hips and tapped his foot. “Oh, you don’t think she knows something’s wrong? The building next door burnt down. A body was found in your office. You had to call your aunt from Chicago to stay with her. No, I guess she hasn’t figured it out.”
Bertha nodded slowly and then stood. This time the room stayed where it was. Alvin walked close at her side as she locked the door and made her way down the back steps and across the yard to the Jeep. Bertha looked at the back of the house. She could see the lights on in Rhonda Green’s apartment. Megan would be putting the boys to bed, settling in to wait for Rhonda to come home. She thought about Jerome the night she’d stayed with them, his brown skin contrasted to the white jockey shorts, his round belly and toothy smile. She really liked the kid and hoped nothing else would happen to scare him.
Bertha pulled the seat belt across her lap and snapped it into place. Alvin backed up slowly and maneuvered around the corner of the house.
“Go down Madison Street,” Bertha said.
Alvin nodded, put the Jeep in first gear, and let the clutch out.
*
The ground was level where Latch’s Grocery Store had stood only a few days ago. The charred lumber and scorched bricks were gone. Next to the empty lot, Edith Latch’s curtain-less windows added to an empty, haunted look. The neighborhood was quiet; the only sounds came from insects as dusk settled in.
Bertha and Alvin waited on the porch swing for Randy. The night air was warm and sultry. Bertha realized she hadn’t eaten since lunch and was hungry. She’d raid Grandma’s cabinets when Alvin was gone, maybe find a can of chicken-noodle soup.
Alvin said, “So you grew up here?”
Bertha looked up and down the street. “Seemed a lot bigger when I was young.”
“My parents lived in Southlawn,” said Alvin. “You know, postwar housing. Little places cut out of a cornfield that seemed small and oppressive even to a little kid. The houses all looked alike—same floor plan, different colors. All the streets were named after famous generals: Grant, Lee, Sherman, and Pickett. The grade school sat in the middle of everything. I remember after the school was built, we had a particularly rainy spring and the puddles in the schoolyard were full of polliwogs. I didn’t know much about the real world until I was in middle school.”
Bertha watched him and waited. Alvin seemed to be looking at the sky, the stars, or something. “So, what’s your point?”
Alvin shrugged. “You grew up in the hood and made it through college and law school. I dropped out of community college, couldn’t even finish the first year. Seems like you and I should have at least had an even chance.”
“Seems to me you should have had a better chance. That’s probably the problem. I never took it for granted that anything would be easy.”
“Maybe,” Alvin admitted, moving the swing slightly.
“I worked summers, but I never had to work during semesters. Grandma always came up with the money. She told me it was my father’s insurance policy. This morning I learned she got the money from Sally. I guess her parents had money.”
Alvin sighed. “Money, the great equalizer.”
“Money and fate, or luck, or whatever you call it. Are you feeling sorry for yourself?”
Alvin shook his head no, then said, “Well, maybe a little. I always felt—you know, apologetic about my education.”
“What happened? Why did you leave school?”
“Hormones.”
Bertha smiled. She thought of Colleen, the cold room they shared her last year of law school. Long, luxurious nights of sex. Her body tingling all day in class. Colleen. The sunken grade-point average that dictated the state’s attorney’s office rather than a large firm. An overwhelming sadness washed over her, feelings that came and went, grieving the lost relationship, the squandered opportunity for a high-paying career, the things she didn’t do at the state’s attorney’s office that could have made a difference. Bertha remembered the night she discovered Colleen had flushed five hundred dollars’ worth of cocaine—the night Bertha hit her.
Alvin said, “There’s Randy.”
Bertha wanted to hold onto him, to grab his legs and beg him to stay. She couldn’t stand the thought of being alone right now.
The small car pulled into the driveway behind the Jeep.
Alvin stood. “Get some rest,” he said, stepping off the porch.
Randy waved at Bertha from the car as Alvin got in. They would have to drive back downtown and pick up Alvin’s car at the Lambert Building. She stood on the dark porch and watched them drive away. Her stomach had a hollow ache, as though the grief left a big empty place in her guts. She reached behind her and stroked the cool leather holster and the butt of her gun—just touching it gave her a feeling of serenity. At least if they came for her tonight, she was ready.
Bertha found Grandma in the kitchen eating soda crackers with butter and sipping from a cup of tea. She wore a limp terry-cloth duster, and her walker sat beside her. The kitchen was clean except for the center of the table that contained several bottles of vitamins, an almanac, and today’s mail.
“Your friend gone, honey?” asked Grandma.
“Yeah. You got something I could eat? I’m hungry.”
“Chicken.”
Bertha crossed the room to the refrigerator and swung the door open. The chicken was left from a bucket the Elder Power girl had brought earlier. There were two drumsticks, a wing, and a biscuit. Bertha took a large bite of a cold chicken leg, stopped, and looked around the room. “What’s that smell?”
“What smell?”
Bertha thought for a moment, and then recognized the odor. “This kitchen smells like Napa Valley.”
Grandma smiled and held up the teacup. “That’s my medicine. The rain makes my hip hurt—wakes me up at night. My doctor told me a little wine would help me sleep easier. I never have it out when you’re here, baby. I’ll put it away if it bothers you.”
“No. I’m fine.”
“Maybe I should put it away.”
Bertha felt irritated. “Don’t be silly. If it helps you sleep, then you need it. I’ll be fine.” Bertha’s shoulder stung a little under the sleeve of the red cam
p shirt. She poured herself a glass of milk, set the other drum stick and the cold biscuit on a saucer, pulled out a chair, and sat down to eat.
Grandma placed her hand on Bertha’s wrist. “It’s nice having you here, Bee. No matter what the reason. I can never see enough of my family.”
Bertha told herself she should try to do better, be here more often, but she probably wouldn’t. It was too easy to get busy and let several days pass before she even called. She was glad for the routine of the Saturday morning trips to the grocery store. Then she remembered. “Tomorrow’s grocery day.”
Grandma said, “I been working on my list. If you’re staying awhile, I could get some ice cream for bedtime.”
Bertha wasn’t listening. Where the hell would Grandma get wine? Who bought it? Where did she keep it? Had she been hiding the stuff from Bertha all this time? She felt weighted with her own guilt—it beat through her veins, clogged in the chambers of her heart. Grandma was the only person Bertha had trusted. Grandma had lied to her. Grandma felt like she needed to hide the alcohol from her. Damn.
Later Bertha lay awake, listening to the sounds of the night, the swing bumping against the house and the trees rustling in the wind. She could hear the cry of a train whistle and then the empty boxcars rhythmically thundering by. She didn’t hear the beast come to reclaim her. It was soft and subtle, sneaking up from behind. First she was looking for aspirin, then she was holding a new bottle of red wine, and then she broke the seal. Sometime after midnight she curled up on the swing, watching the wind push an empty potato-chip bag blown end-to-end across the yard, and put the bottle to her lips. The drink seared her raw throat as she swallowed it down.
Chapter Thirty-six
The dream was the same. A house with gray-shingle siding Bertha had visited as a child: down a dirt road, with cornfields on either side, between tall, black trees, the smell of wood smoke, and the sounds of Motown. The shag carpet was reminiscent of an animal afflicted with mange; the arms of the brown leather-like couch and chair were split and peeling. Bertha pulled a wagon with a teddy bear across the room to a closet. She reached up and turned the knob. The door swung open, and she stepped onto a sun porch she knew could not be there—yellow, light-filled windows, green hanging plants, and a glider covered with a red-and-blue Indian blanket. Her mother moved the glider slowly, dragged on a cigarette, and read the Sunday paper. Then Sally Morescki looked up, saw the child, and opened her arms.
The handle of the wagon thudded as Bertha ran to her. She could feel the motion of the glider and the chill of the room. A long way off the hunting dog her father kept tied under a tree was barking.
As she burrowed into her mother’s bosom, Bertha closed her eyes. Through her lids she could see her own red blood vessels rendered orange by the sunlight that was warming her face. Opening her eyes slowly, she could see the blue sky, the white painted boards of the rooftop. The swing rocked her gently.
Bertha moved and something fell from her lap, hit the wooden floor, and rolled. She looked down and saw the empty wine bottle, realized she’d been dreaming and had just opened her eyes to a harsher reality. Her body was stiff, as if she’d awakened, not from a night’s sleep, but from a whole lifetime of sleep. The sharp perfume of alcohol filled her with a pang as painful and raw as a bloody bone.
The swing moved a little as Bertha pulled herself to a sitting position. She was barefoot, wearing only a nightshirt with purple stains. Her mouth had a dry, sour taste. Her eyes felt as if they were separated by the blade of an ax that was buried in her forehead. A second empty wine bottle sat near the steps, next to the morning newspaper.
She heard Grandma’s voice. “You’re up. Good.”
Blinking, Bertha turned toward the screen door. She could see Grandma’s shadow inside. She reached for the handrail, pulled herself up, took a few steps, brushed her little toe against the empty wine bottle, and watched it roll down the cement steps.
Grandma opened the screen door. “Pick up that newspaper and come on in. I got some coffee heating up.”
Bertha reached down for the paper, stumbled sideways, and grabbed the doorknob to keep her balance. She cleared her throat and said, “Let me get these bottles.”
“Get them later. When you got some clothes on.”
Bertha looked down at her shirt and nodded slowly. She could feel the cool morning air on the back of her legs. She stepped through the door into the dark living room.
“I need a shower.”
Grandma said firmly, “Yes, you do.”
The coffeepot gurgled on the stove. Grandma didn’t make coffee for herself, and Bertha knew that moving around on the walker must have taken every last bit of her energy. Bertha pulled her nightshirt over her head, dropped it on the bathroom floor, and stepped into the tub. The water pressure, not very good to start with, had gotten worse over the years. Bertha stood under the warm water and held her head back. Her body was thankfully numb, though her eyes hurt; her head hurt, and her stomach was rolling. The anvil of guilt sat on her chest. When would she ever stop screwing up? Could she quit drinking today? Her mouth was dry; her hands trembled; her system was ready for more. She needed to go back to sleep, let the toxin work its way through her body. The hot water changed to cold very quickly. She adjusted the faucet two or three times before she gave up and shut it off. She pulled a blue-striped towel from a rack and blotted her skin. When she pulled the nightshirt back over her head it stuck to the droplets on her back and shoulders. She roughly tugged it into place. The wet gauze on her shoulder immediately soaked through the T-shirt she put on after she threw the bloody one in the laundry. The last almost-clean shirt.
Grandma set a place at the table.
“I really need to get going. I can’t take you to the store this morning. I’ll take you this afternoon, okay?”
“Where you headed in such a hurry?”
“Home. Going back to bed.”
“Sleep here. I need you here.”
Bertha sighed and sat down at the table. The smell of the coffee was actually inviting. She took a sip. “Please don’t take this the wrong way,” Bertha said. “But I’m very angry with you right now.”
Grandma’s mouth was a thin, straight line. Her wrinkled, brown chin trembled slightly. She let go of the walker and sat down. At last she said, “Is that why you drank all my wine?”
“I don’t know. But I will replace it, I promise.”
“And we both know how good promises are from a drinker.”
Bertha held her hand in the air. “Stop. I’ll go to a meeting. I’ll call my sponsor.”
“Honey, go to bed and sleep it off. I’ll feel better with you here. Safer.”
Bertha was too tired to argue. She nodded, stood, and headed for the north bedroom, where she pulled the dark-green shades all the way down and slid between the sheets.
*
A voice startled her. “What the hell is this?”
Bertha rolled over, shading her eyes, trying to remember where she was. Who was shouting at her? She opened her eyes a centimeter at a time.
“Sleeping Beauty wakes,” Toni Matulis said.
What was she doing here?
“What time is it?” Bertha asked.
“Two thirty,” said Toni. “I’ve been worried about you. I called your place. Called the office. Then I had your answering service page Alvin.”
“Alvin?” Bertha tried to remember if she’d told Alvin where she’d be. “What made you think of Alvin?”
“The woman at the service told me he could usually reach you.”
“Does he know you?” Bertha’s head throbbed. Nothing made sense.
“Remember, I met him a couple of days ago at your house? I had my zipper undone.” Toni leaned close and said between her teeth, “He told me you’d been shot.”
Bertha remembered her shoulder. It did feel stiff; her whole body felt stiff.
She moaned. “Oh, yeah.”
“I ask again, what the hell is this?”
/> Bertha made her eyes focus on the empty wine bottles in Toni’s hands. There was no use denying it. “I had a drink.”
“I didn’t think your grandma left this mess all over the porch.” Toni’s voice sounded cynical. “You told me you didn’t drink.”
“I told you I was an alcoholic.” Had she? What had she told Toni?
“You told me you used to be addicted to cocaine. What does that have to do with this?”
“A drug is a drug is a drug.”
Toni stood up straight and folded her arms across her chest. Her auburn French twist was coming unraveled. Her skin was flushed and damp behind the spray of freckles across her cheeks. “What’s that? A Gertrude Stein imitation?”
“It’s a concept.” How could she explain to Toni something as complex and as hard to grasp as the similarities between wet drugs and dry drugs? Bertha had taken a year to accept it herself.
Bertha felt for the edge of the sheet and pulled it over her head, saying, “Go away. Leave me alone.”
“Let me see your shoulder.” Toni tugged at the sheet. The adhesive tape was loose at the top, and Toni pulled the dressing off in one motion. The squeaky springs gave a soft cry as she sat on the edge of the bed.
“It doesn’t look too bad,” Toni said.
“It’s not.” Bertha scooted to a sitting position, dangling her feet.
Toni put both arms around her and held on tight. “I’ve been so worried.”
Bertha felt like her head was in a cement mixer. The hangover pain was worse than the shoulder pain. If she could lie back down and be very still, she might get some relief. But Toni insisted on jostling the bed.
“I need about six aspirin and a couple more hours of sleep.”
Toni pulled away and met her eyes. “Are you going to be all right?”
Bertha didn’t know. “Sure.”
Toni stood and said, “I’m going to try to find some fresh dressing to cover that shoulder.”
Nine Nights on the Windy Tree Page 29
