Bertha quietly padded to the front hall and peeked out. There stood Maggie, the cat woman. Bertha remembered that there’d be a home visit to see how Snuggles was getting along. How the hell would she explain that the cat was lost in the ductwork? The doorbell went off again. This time Maggie seemed to be leaning on it.
Bertha unlocked the door, pulled it open, and sighed. “Come in.”
Maggie beamed up at her as she stepped into the foyer. She looked first one direction, then the next. “I just came to see how things were going with Snuggles.”
“As you might imagine,” Bertha said ushering the woman toward the family room, “things started out a little bumpy.”
“You know,” Maggie said, “Snuggles was my favorite cat. He’s been with the shelter longer than most of the rest. I was so happy to see that he was going to a good home.”
“Thank you,” Bertha said. What made this woman so damn happy? “But I need to stress that things around here aren’t perfect.”
Maggie cocked her head. “You think this won’t work out then?”
“Not exactly. Have a seat.” Bertha ushered her toward a rocking chair, the only surface that wasn’t covered by Sunday’s paper.
Maggie sat. Still beaming, she said, “Where’s he at?”
As if the cat heard a familiar voice, he screeched.
Maggie wrinkled her brow. “Is he in the basement?”
“Don’t have a basement.”
“But…”
“He’s stuck in the ductwork.”
The color rose in Maggie’s face. “You put him in the ductwork?”
“No.” Bertha sat on the couch. “He made the choice.”
“Oh, my God.” Maggie stood and moved toward the sound of the cat’s cries. She stopped at the kitchen island and called out to Bertha. “This is how he got into the vent. The cover is removed.”
Bertha stood and followed Maggie. “He got in there through the bedroom vent. I left it open because I dropped something down there and it didn’t occur to me that he’d get in.”
“Has he eaten?”
Bertha nodded. “He came out last night and while I was gone today and ate.”
The cat meowed again, sounding more pitiful than ever. Maggie stooped next to the open vent and called out, “Snuggles?” He seemed to answer her. Maggie stood and turned toward Bertha. Her forehead was wrinkled in a frown.
Bertha said, “I am so sorry.”
Maggie lost it and bent over laughing. Between breaths, she said, “He’s hell for this.”
Bertha was relieved and smiled. Then she was laughing. Gasping, she managed a few words at a time. “The cat is strange. But I’m attached to him now.”
Maggie, her complexion red, held on to the counter, wiping tears from her eyes.
“What do I need to do? Does this happen very often?”
Maggie shook her head. “Never.” She tried to call Snuggles again but was laughing so hard she couldn’t get the words out.
“Maybe you should sit down,” Bertha said. “Take a minute.”
Maggie scooted up on a stool at the kitchen island.
Bertha offered her a tissue.
Maggie said, “Thank you. He is a pistol, isn’t he?”
Bertha sighed. “What can I do besides call the fire department?”
“You’ve been thinking about this, haven’t you?” Maggie blew her nose. “Let’s try a live trap. I think I have one in my trunk.”
Bertha followed the frizzy-haired, big-hipped woman out the front door. An old Ford Focus sat at the curb. She wondered how big a live trap was. Would Maggie need help? She stayed close, just in case.
A cold gust of wind made the little woman’s silver hair stand on end. Her skirt whipped against her legs as she opened the trunk. While it was full of a lot of things, there was no live trap. “I must have left it at the shelter,” Maggie said. “We use them for catching feral cats for our spay-and-neuter program.” She looked at her watch. “It’s getting late and looks like rain. I have some dog-walking to do yet today. I’ll come back tomorrow evening. As long as he’s eating, he’ll be all right for one more night.”
Bertha thanked Maggie and shoved her fists into her pockets as she watched the little car pull away. As she headed for the house, she saw a pizza delivery truck at the house across the street. Pizza sounded good.
*
Bertha drove across town to Rita’s Pizzeria, where she had talked to Scottie the ambulance driver on the night Scottie was assaulted. Bertha’s plan was to order a takeout pizza and cross the street to the Crones Nest and talk to Billie. At first she planned to pick up the pizza and visit Grandma, but gradually she realized that wasn’t going to happen. Her energy would only take her so far.
Rain beat down and the front door was propped open when Bertha walked into the Crones Nest. Dark and cool, the place had an aroma of sour beer. She noted there was no music, only a dense stillness. The calm wouldn’t last long, as, soon enough, folks would start coming in after work.
Billie had her elbow on the business side of the bar watching the six o’clock news on an old 13-inch TV with the sound turned down. She wore a faded red Crones Nest T-shirt and polka-dot pedal pushers. What did the kids call them these days? Capris.
Bertha pulled out a stool and lifted herself into it.
Billie turned, her voice cracked, as she said, “Hi, Bertha, what can I get you?”
“Are you sick?”
Billie coughed and cleared her throat. “Cigarettes. I’m gonna quit someday.”
Outside the air split with thunder. The lights flickered.
Billie said, “Looks like more rain.”
“Not a good time of year to have so much rain,” Bertha said as she observed the local newscaster interviewing a farmer.
Billie reached for a glass and drew Bertha a diet soda. She placed the usual paper cocktail napkin on the bar and set the glass on it. “My brother owns a farm over toward Edinburg. Ground’s too soft. Can’t get in the fields.”
Bertha stood and dug her cigarette-case-wallet out of her pocket and pulled out the correct change. Through the open door, the rain came down with a new force. It poured off the rooftop in solid silver sheets.
Bertha said, “Looks like a lake falling from the sky.”
“Hey, Grandma,” a voice came from the other side of the room. “Want me to shut the door?”
“Might as well.” Billie waved him on.
“I didn’t know you had grandchildren,” Bertha said.
“Well, you ain’t exactly been a loyal patron for several years.”
Bertha heard the door close. The result was muted quiet that had a noise all its own. Billie was right. She could count on one hand the times she’d been to the bar since she got sober and met Toni. They’d preferred sitting at home in front of the flat-screen with popcorn and watching whatever sport was in season. Sometimes one or both of them would fall asleep on the couch. She didn’t realize she was thinking about Toni again. She’d floated into Bertha’s mind and taken control of her mood.
“It’s John’s son. When John remarried a few years ago, Logan came to stay with me.”
“What about his mother?” Bertha asked. “Is she in the picture?”
“Cervical cancer. Wasn’t one to run to the doctor with every ache and pain. By the time she was diagnosed, she was too far gone. The boy stayed with me a lot in those days. John had to travel.”
“What’d he do?”
“Job? He drove a truck. Kept trying to get a route that was closer to home. Finally he quit to sell insurance. That’s where he met the new wife.”
The light was dim, and for the second time that day Bertha studied her image in the mirror. Who was that old woman? Behind her, she could see the boy at a table, bent over a laptop. He put a cigarette to his lips and pulled at it easily. He was slim and dark, with a narrow nose and fragile features. His complexion looked sallow in the dim light from the computer screen. His blue hair fell over his eyes. She reme
mbered a heavy-set white hooker who’d had pink dye over blond hair the last time she was in Bertha’s courtroom. Bertha said, “Good looking boy,” and neglected to mention that smoking was illegal in a bar. She wanted information, and criticism wasn’t going to get it for her.
Billie stood near Bertha, both turned toward the TV. Bertha asked, “You remember the night Scottie was assaulted?”
Billie nodded without turning her head.
“Was anyone else in here?”
Billie shrugged. “Slow night.” She moved a step away from Bertha.
“Billie. I need to talk about this.”
Billie turned and eyed her. “We already talked about it.”
“I know. But I keep thinking I missed something important.”
“I don’t remember who was in here. Eventually it was me and her alone.”
“When you left, why did you go to the alley?”
“Parked there.” Billie seemed annoyed. “Car’s out there tonight. Take a look if you want.”
Two women fell through the door, laughing and shrieking as they shook rain off a single umbrella. Bertha didn’t know them. They were young, wearing clothes appropriate for the office, but both walked in a boyish manner. In work clothes or naked, even a two-year-old could identify these two as lesbian. They climbed onto stools at the end of the bar and immediately had their hands on each other. They’d probably been waiting all day.
Billie waved to them and turned toward Bertha. “I’m sorry I don’t know more. I understand why it’s important to you. But Scottie was just an old bar dyke. I don’t think she’s the direction you need to look.” Then she moved to the end of the bar to take the women’s orders.
Bertha checked her watch and decided that her pizza was probably ready, but still she waited with a knot in her guts. Billie had to know something. She just didn’t realize that she did. Bertha figured if she talked to her a few more minutes, she’d get closer to whatever it was. But she finally understood that Billie didn’t want to talk about Scottie and that night. Who could blame her?
Whisper and Dinah Brand came through the door. The rain appeared to be letting up. Bertha hadn’t seen the two old queens for a long time. They saw her and came to her but, after a few words, ran out of things to say. Out of the corner of her eye, Bertha noticed more of the rush-hour crowd come in, and Logan Little, his laptop in a canvas bag, left. She’d lost track of Billie and decided that a talk would be impossible anyway.
She was hungry and drew the last of the melted ice from her drink and crunched on it as she left. A wet gust of wind knifed at her face. Rippling pools of streetlight reflected in the rain-filled gutters.
As Bertha opened the door to Rita’s, the too-warm air and smell of pizza greeted her. She took a seat and waited for her pie. The place was filling up.
Then a teenager came to the counter and said, “Does anyone in here belong to that red Jeep out front?”
“It’s mine,” Bertha said.
The boy jerked his thumb toward the door. “Looks like somebody’s trying to get the door open.”
The sound of shattering glass rang through the dining room and got everyone’s attention. Bertha raced across the room, almost colliding with a toddler in a high chair. She plunged through the open door hollering at a man beside her Jeep. She called out, “Hey, you. Get the hell—” Then the man was lifted and thrown backward by an explosion. People screamed as glass and debris rained down. Bertha realized she was sitting in the pizzeria’s doorway, her hand bleeding. She turned over on all fours, then stood and stepped forward. Her new Wrangler was in flames.
Chapter Eleven
When Bertha opened her eyes, she was lying on a gurney in the emergency ward, the same ER she’d rushed to the night Toni had been killed. Her vision was blurry, and despite the fact that she could see a crying toddler across the room, she couldn’t hear anything. She recognized the baby as the one she’d almost knocked over when she ran to the door. A woman in a white coat was talking to her. Then she turned away and gave orders to a girl next to her, who looked all of fifteen years old. Bertha tried to raise her hand to catch the woman’s lab coat, but she couldn’t. What the hell?
The next time she woke, she was in a hospital room with walls the color of puke. Alvin sat in an uncomfortable-looking chair next to her. At least she thought it was Alvin. She tried to say his name, but no words came. Nevertheless, he looked at her and said something. She slowly rolled her head from side to side. He picked up a waiting steno pad and wrote. She squinted as he held it for her to see.
“There’s a good chance your hearing will return. You got the steroid shots right away.”
That woke her up. She couldn’t hear and hadn’t known it. Well, she had known that she wasn’t hearing, but she hadn’t known that she couldn’t hear. She tried to talk—to ask him what happened—but her throat was dry. He held the pen and paper out to her. She raised her hand to take it and discovered it was wrapped in gauze. She dropped it to her side. Alvin was talking again. Then he seemed to remember and wrote on the steno pad. “Pulled glass out of your hands. A couple of places stitched up. Not as bad as your head though.”
She reached to her head and felt the gauze on her hand touch gauze across her forehead. She saw him writing again. “No scars. Plastic surgeon stitched up your forehead. Probably look better than you have for several years.”
She rolled her eyes, and he smiled for the first time. She took hold of the tablet and pen, and after some stress and despite the pain unsteadily scratched out the word “Cat.”
Alvin started talking, then stopped and took the tablet. “Couldn’t find your purse. Do you have another key?”
Her keys had been in her jeans pocket. She slid her left hand beneath her covers and discovered her pants were gone. She frowned. Where the hell were they? She was in some cotton thing. How could she write all of that for Alvin when she could barely write “Cat”? But Alvin watched her struggle and caught on. He wrote a single word. “Pants?”
Bertha nodded.
Forgetting again she couldn’t hear him, he said something and left the room.
Bertha took in her surroundings. She was in the hospital. The last thing she remembered was waiting for her pizza, then opening the door and being pushed back by the force of the blast. Her hands were bloody. She’d crawled back to the open door and saw her Jeep, what was left of it, on fire. Flames licked at the night sky, and several small parts were scattered across the street and sidewalk, still burning. The next thing she remembered was the emergency room, the baby crying soundlessly, and then Alvin with her. The fact that her car was gone gradually sank in.
A woman in flowered scrubs came into her room, said something, and unceremoniously pulled her to a sitting position and swung her legs over the side of the bed. When Bertha stood, she felt dizzy, but Flowered Scrubs was stronger than she looked. Although Bertha stood a head taller than the woman, together they took slow steps toward the bathroom, Flowered Scrubs managing the IV pole. The woman left Bertha on the stool, and when she returned to bed, it had been made. A fresh pitcher of ice water and a glass sat on the night table. Bertha was glad to be back in bed, and she closed her eyes and dozed.
Then the room smelled like food, and she remembered that she hadn’t eaten since the Little Debbie attack that morning, or maybe it was yesterday morning. She wasn’t sure. A young guy in light-blue scrubs carried a tray into the room and set it at the foot of her bed. He moved close to her and said something. She watched his lips and tried to understand, but couldn’t. Every basketball fan, including Bertha, understood Kobe Bryant when, off microphone and from the bench, he called a ref a “fucking faggot.” It caused a helluva stir. But no matter how closely Bertha watched this guy talk, she couldn’t understand. In frustration she raised her left taped-up hand and slapped at her ear.
The guy stopped and looked at her questioningly. Then he mouthed the words, “Do I know you?” She hadn’t heard it but read his lips. My God! She was learning t
o lip-read? Or maybe it was a Kobe Bryant thing. She looked at him carefully but couldn’t place him. She shrugged.
He turned to the food and cranked up the table, then pushed a button and the head of the bed rose. Bertha slid down a bit, but she could reach the tray. He uncovered green Jell-O and Cream of Wheat—maybe grits. She wasn’t sure. He picked up a small tin pot and poured liquid into a lone cup. It was coffee. Concentrating on getting the cup to her lips, she spilled some on the covers. Thankfully it was only lukewarm. She looked around for help with the spill and found herself alone again.
Alvin appeared next to the bed and startled her. He took the cup from her hands and put a straw in it. She drew the coffee through it and was satisfied. He held a spoon of the hot cereal next. She closed her mouth and turned away. She thought he’d set the spoon down and she turned to him to say “Stop,” and ended up with a mouth full of grits. Well, at least it wasn’t Cream of Wheat. She pointed to a container of milk, and he obligingly poured some in the bowl and stirred it.
He was talking to her again. He held a plastic container up in front of her, and there she saw the contents of her jeans pockets: the gold cigarette case, which might or might not contain her money and driver’s license and a ring with her car and house keys, and a half-used roll of breath mints. She let him go on, deciding that when she was done eating, she’d find a way to ask about her clothes. But the warmth of her breakfast in her raw stomach put her back to sleep.
*
“Quiet. You’ll wake her.”
“Aw. She can’t hear nothin’.”
The air smelled of some kind of stringent cleaner. Bertha’s head hurt, and feeling like death on toast, she forced her eyes open. Images were blurry at first but gradually came into focus. They were on the far side of room, near the closed door. Had they come to finish her off? Surely not with cleaning products.
Widow Page 11
