Widow

by Martha Miller

  “She’s a judge, you know.”

  “I thought she was one of them from the explosion last night.”

  “She is. I was in the ER and seen her when she come in. Blood and burns everywhere. Most of ’em was a mess.”

  “But it was her car?”

  The other man nodded and said, “She must of totally upset somebody.”

  These guys were custodians, talking about the explosion. She next realized with joy that she had been listening to a conversation.

  A knock sounded at the door. The men went back to work scrubbing the floor as Flowered Scrubs came in carrying a bunch of roses. As the woman approached her bed, Bertha closed her eyes, feigning sleep. When they were all gone, she looked around her room. The second bed was empty, the curtains were open, and late-afternoon sun was coming through the window, lighting the colors of the flowers on the windowsill. Most folks didn’t get this many flowers at their funeral, but she was in a bed, not a coffin. She grabbed the bed rails and felt a sting on the thumb of her left hand.

  A large, matronly, mixed-race woman with freckles and battleship-gray hair came into her room. Bertha tried pretending she was asleep again, but the woman walked to her bedside and said, “Judge Brannon?”

  Bertha opened her eyes.

  “So you can hear me?”

  Bertha nodded.

  “Don’t want to talk?”

  Bertha tried to force a sound out of her raspy throat and ended up in a coughing fit, during which she realized she needed to pee. She took a deep breath and lifted her chin toward the bathroom door and met the woman’s eyes.

  “Okay,” the woman said. “We can get you up.”

  As Bertha walked to the bathroom, she was off balance and kicked the damn IV stand a couple of times but didn’t need much help. When she was done, the woman sat Bertha in the chair Alvin had used and straightened her bed, then went out of the room and returned with a dinner tray.

  “Here you go, sweetie,” she said, as she took covers off of the plates. “Eat up.”

  A naked, baked chicken leg, green beans, a container of applesauce, and a glass of iced tea stared up at Bertha. A small piece of chocolate cake with chocolate icing stuck to the Glad Wrap cover on the plate looked tempting, but she picked up the applesauce and tried to work the top off.

  “Here, let me get that for you.” The woman opened the applesauce cup and unwrapped the cake. “Most of the icing is on the plastic wrap. I’ll leave that for you too.”

  Bertha said, “Thanks,” then coughed. Her voice didn’t sound right, but she assured herself that recovering was a process.

  “You’re welcome, Judge.” The woman sat on the straight-backed wooden chair and said, “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  Bertha studied her face. There was something familiar about her. But she met so many people. She smiled and shrugged.

  “My name is Blossom Hughes. Thanks to you I got my first grandbaby.”

  “Huh?”

  “My son Tre was in front of you ’bout six years ago,” Blossom said. “You give him drug treatment, boot camp, and community service. Changed his life. He got his GED in camp and served his community service here scrubbing floors.”

  Although now she could see it coming, Bertha waited for the grandbaby part.

  “He met a girl here and decided he wanted to work in the hospital. Got his nurse’s aide certificate and got married. Now I have a grandbaby.” The woman pulled her phone out of her uniform pocket and messed with it, then held a picture of a light-skinned toddler for Bertha to examine.

  “Thanks for telling me,” Bertha croaked.

  “I wanted them to name her Bertha,” Blossom went on, “but you know kids.”

  Suddenly hungry, she picked up the drumstick and took a bite, chewed, and swallowed. “I usually never know what happened to kids until they’re in front of me again.”

  “Then I’m glad I told you.”

  Her mouth full of chocolate cake, she smiled and nodded.

  Bertha ate and slept, waking up still in the chair after dark. The night-light above her bed cast long shadows. She stood, made her way to the bathroom, and on the way back to bed grabbed the plastic wrap that had covered the chocolate cake.

  She closed her eyes and saw herself in the pizzeria’s doorway. The force of the heat had pushed her backward a couple of steps. She saw the blood on her hands. Had whoever broke into the car died in the explosion? Or had he caused the explosion? She was always pissing people off. She liked to piss people off. That’s why she loved being a judge. More than one felon had told her he’d come after her when he got out of prison. Those guys didn’t worry her. She didn’t even bother throwing in a contempt ruling. They’d be so busy trying to survive in prison, they wouldn’t have time to think much about revenge.

  She heard a noise and realized she’d been asleep again. The room was dark. Shadows from the flowers surrounded her—on the windowsill, on her nightstand, and on her bed table. Then she heard it again, a loose, gravely cough. As she opened her eyes, the smell of stale cigarettes wafted toward her.

  “Sorry to wake you.”

  Bertha asked, “Who’s there?”

  Billie Little moved to her bed rail. “How you feeling?”

  Bertha blinked sleep from her eyes. “What time is it?”

  Billie checked her watch. “Bout two thirty in the morning.”

  “They let you come up here?”

  “Didn’t ask em. I had to close the bar—nailed some plywood over the busted windows—cleaned up glass and stuff. Couldn’t come before now.”

  “Anybody on the Crones Nest side of the street get hurt? How’s that blue-haired grandson of yours?”

  Billie snorted. “Kids. I asked him why he’d want something like that hair. He says everyone’s doing it.”

  Bertha nodded. “He could be right. Not blue, but all kinds of funny colors. Bright red or pink or purple.”

  “They walk around like they don’t know how stupid it looks. Anyway, Logan is all right, but one guy’s dead. Haven’t identified him.”

  “Do they know what caused the blast?”

  Billie glanced toward the door. “I dunno.”

  “Wasn’t the explosion the night before last?”

  “You’re confused.” Billie coughed again.

  “Take a load off,” Bertha said, pointing to a chair.

  Billie pulled a chair close to the hospital bed and settled back, halfway against the wooden arm, then flung both seventy-year-old legs over the other side. If you couldn’t see her mature face, she would’ve looked like a teenage boy—small body, a light denim jacket, jeans with tattered knees, and a navy-colored baseball cap.

  At length Billie said, “We don’t have to talk about anything. I just wanted to see you for myself. To make sure you’re all right.”

  Bertha yawned. “Thanks.”

  “You go on and sleep,” Billie said. “I’ll just sit here for a few more minutes. I’m glad you’re doing so well. None of us were sure how badly you were hurt.”

  Bertha’s eyelids were heavy. “I’m sure I’m going to be all right. In fact, I am all right. I went to the bathroom by myself a while ago.”

  Billie swung her feet to the floor and sat up. “There’s a coffee machine in the waiting room down the hall. I’m going to get a cup. You want some hot chocolate or something?”

  “Is there a soda machine? I’d kill for a Diet Pepsi.”

  Billie stood and leaned over the bed. “No need to kill anyone. If there ain’t no Pepsi machine down there, I’ll go find one.” She pecked Bertha on the cheek. “Be right back, hon.”

  Bertha brushed her taped fingers against her cheek. Billie was just an old friend who’d never been much for hugs and kisses. Maybe it was the shock of the injury. That was all. Plus sometimes people softened up when they got older—started talking about God and love and stuff. She’d seen it happen to Aunt Lucy, giving God another try in old age, but never Grandma. Then Bertha reminded herself that s
he’d only seen Billie three or four times in the past twenty years. It had to be the queer code of conduct from the old days. They took care of their own.

  When Billie returned, she popped open the top on a can of Diet Pepsi and stuck the straw from Bertha’s water glass in it. She then put the straw to Bertha’s lips, and Bertha drank.

  “Easy now. You don’t want to get sick.”

  Bertha wrinkled her brow. She’d been drinking soda of some kind since she was a child. “Why would I get sick?”

  “Sometimes your meds…”

  “I’m fine. Been eating and drinking all day. Hold that up here again.”

  Billie held the can before her and Bertha angled for the straw. Billie’s cigarette smell was more likely to make Bertha sick. She dropped her head back on the pillow.

  “Just close your eyes,” Billie said. “I’ll put this on the night table where you can reach it. I’m going to sit here and have my coffee.”

  Bertha fell asleep and dreamed about Billie Little at Grandma’s house. They sat on the porch swing, passing a Pall Mall back and forth. Billie’s voice, no longer raspy, was a soft whisper. Bertha said something, and Billie was so patient, so agreeable it was like she was translucent, a part of Bertha, yet fading away. In the end, Billie tossed the cigarette, which had become a butt, into the flowerbed that lined the front porch. Bertha turned to tell Billie that a cigarette in the flowerbed was a sacrilege, but Billie was gone.

  Chapter Twelve

  Bertha believed that there were moments in life when everything changed, and everything else was defined as coming before or after that event. One day life stretched out before her like an endless carpet, and the next it felt fragile, like a strong wind could blow it all down. Toni’s death had started it, but the tragedy hadn’t stopped there; Bertha was still putting out fires.

  She woke the next morning with a headache and a type of terror that wasn’t rational, or maybe, considering all that had happened, it was perfectly rational, just unusual for her. A young nurse’s aide helped her to the bathroom where she could see in the mirror over the sink, for the first time, that her hair was singed along the right side of her face. She said, “Goddamn,” and turned away.

  Back in the room, she sat up while the aide straightened the hospital bed. The girl turned the TV on to one of those morning news programs, and Bertha tried to tune it out. Her own jumbled thoughts were enough for now. Through the windows, the sky was light gray.

  “Those are some pretty flowers,” the girl said. “You must have lots of friends.”

  Bertha looked at the girl and tried to smile. Brown and pretty—she wasn’t much older than Doree—and about six months pregnant. She missed Doree and the day-to-day of what her life had been. “Can I get something for this headache?”

  “After your shower,” the aide said. Then she stuck a thermometer in Bertha’s mouth and wrapped her arm in a blood-pressure cuff.

  “Shower?”

  “You’re down for a shower this morning.” The aide pumped the cuff and let the air out slowly. The thermometer beeped, and she pulled it out of Bertha’s mouth. She recorded the numbers on a Post-it pad.

  Bertha held up her hands. “What about my dressing?”

  “We put a cap over your head. The tape on your hands got to come off anyway.” The girl sounded downright happy about it. “You feel better after.”

  Bertha wanted to go home. She wanted her own bathroom and her own kitchen. She wanted her psycho cat and her delinquent daughter, and most of all she wanted Toni. “If I have to take it, then let’s do it. The sooner I get some coffee and pain meds, the better.”

  There must have been an edge to her voice. Without another word, the girl hurried to her assistance, producing a towel and washcloth, pulling off the tape and gauze, helping her stand and walk to the bathroom, adjusting the heat of the water, and handing her the soap. Bertha let the warm jets of water message her skin and beat on her chest, then turned and let the needles strike her back. The soap stung some spots on her hands. She’d have marks from the burns for a while. Two cuts on her right hand were held with strips that were coming loose and would probably come off after the shower.

  The girl gave Bertha a fresh cotton gown and rolled the bed tray up next to her. A cup turned over on a saucer sat next to a small carafe of coffee was all Bertha could see. She reached for it.

  “You take cream or sugar, Judge?”

  “You know who I am?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Everybody here knows. We don’t get many exploding-vehicle traumas. They’s been a lot of excitement. I’ll tell the nurse you’re ready for your meds. She’s the one who’ll redress your hands.”

  “Thank you.”

  But as it turned out, she hadn’t even gotten her cup upright before two plain-clothes detectives came in and tried to introduce themselves, but their deep voices were inaudible. Bertha would have asked them to repeat their names, but the one standing at the right side of her bed offered her a hand to shake, and she quickly held them up so he could see the redness of her burns. He dropped his hand and said, “Sorry.” At least that’s what she thought he said.

  “You’re going to have to speak up a little, my ears…” She didn’t know what to say about them.

  This time she heard him say, “Sorry. We have a few questions.”

  “Wait.” Bertha reached for the coffee.

  “Let me help you, Judge,” the younger, chubbier one, whose nose seemed insufficient compared to the rest of his face turned the cup upright and poured the coffee. “You want to work on that before we talk?”

  “Yes, thanks.” Bertha’s hands trembled as she brought the cup to her lips. The dark liquid was warm, but not so warm she couldn’t take a large sip. Before she set it down, she’d finished half of it.

  Chubby refilled the cup, then smiled. His face flushed.

  Bringing it to her lips, steadier this time, Bertha thought she wasn’t in the mood to talk to the police. What could she tell them anyway? Her head hurt, and anger boiled in her guts. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a vase of cheery flowers on her nightstand. She didn’t want to be cheerful—she wanted to knock the thing over or punch a hole in the wall. She wanted to scream at the helpful chubby, rosy-cheeked detective, but she said, “Thank you.”

  “Do you have any idea who may have done this, Judge?” Chubby asked, with a just-the-facts-ma’am demeanor, then held a small spiral pad and a pen in the air, waiting.

  Bertha sighed and shook her head. “Was it last night or the night before? I’m confused.”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Yesterday,” Bertha said in wonder.

  “Did you have any cases? Threats?”

  “Some moron,” Bertha said, “has been calling with threats to me and my daughter.”

  “You’ve reported this to the police?”

  “Yes. Why don’t you know that?”

  “Sorry. I’m sure we have records of the calls. But for now, it’s easier to ask about it,” Chubby said. “Were the calls from a male or female?”

  “Male. They’re unnerving, but until now, nothing’s happened.”

  The older, pewter-haired detective at the end of the bed asked, “What were you doing down in that neighborhood, anyway?”

  Annoyed, Bertha said, “I was getting a pizza. That’s why most people go to a pizzeria. Surely you’re not going to tell me there are places in this city I’m not supposed to go?”

  “No, ma’am,” the gray-headed detective said. “That wouldn’t be politically, ah, right.” He had an expression of a man with a bad taste in his mouth.

  Bertha shot him a critical look.

  He went on. “A witness told us the Jeep had been parked there for almost an hour. We wondered if you had some other business down there.”

  Annoyed, visualizing the new red Jeep before and after, Bertha turned the tables on him. “Are you blaming me for the explosion? Do you think if I’d moved the car sooner, it wouldn’t have blown up?”

 
The chubbier suit at her bedside spoke. “A person is dead. We have to ask questions.”

  Bertha hesitated. Of course, he was right. She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I crossed the street and visited with an old friend at the Crones Nest for a few minutes.”

  “Ms. Little?”

  Somewhat surprised, Bertha asked, “You know her?”

  The detectives looked at each other. The one beside her said, “We haven’t been able to locate her. The body we found is burnt beyond recognition. We’re working on a positive ID with dental records, DNA, and so forth, but for right now we’re assuming the body is Billie Little.”

  “What? Why?” Her hearing was getting better, but her memory was still spotty. She’d almost convinced herself that Billie’s visit had been a dream. Maybe it had been a dream.

  The suit at the foot of her bed shrugged. “Everyone else is accounted for.”

  As Bertha’s head pounded, she set the empty coffee cup down and touched her temple, seeing the burns on the back of her hand as if for the first time. The fear the “accounted for” information produced was senseless. She was sure she’d seen Billie just a few hours ago and talked to her. She remembered Grandma’s porch, sitting on the swing with Billie, smoking. It had been one of those dreams when Bertha looked like Martha Stewart. Being Martha had come and gone over the years, especially after the domestic goddess’s stint in prison. She sometimes wished her sleeping brain would choose a strong and beautiful black woman, like Grace Jones or Queen Latifah. Bertha remembered the glow of the dream cigarette as it arched toward the flowerbed. Had Billie’s visit been a dream too?

  “You all right?” the detective at the foot of her bed asked.

  Bertha nodded. “Could one of you see where the nurse is? I have some pain medication coming.”

  Chubby locked eyes with Gray Hair and raised his chin toward the door. Gray Hair left the room.

  “What do you remember?” the bedside suit persisted.

  “I went in and placed an order at Rita’s and then crossed the street to say hello to Billie. She was there. Her grandson was there. We talked.”

  “About what?”

  “Aging dyke stuff,” Bertha said.