Widow

by Martha Miller

  His cheeks flushed.

  Most whites couldn’t be great poker players; their feelings were hard to hide. Humiliate a black woman, and you won’t know it until she’s kicked you in the chin. Except Toni. Bertha’d never been sure what was on her mind. Softer now, Bertha said, “We talked about the events in my life the past couple of months.”

  “Your, ah, friend’s death?”

  She nodded and strained to contain tears as the headache and conversation concocted a vile nausea. “I wasn’t at the bar long. I went back to Rita’s and was in line to pick up my pizza.”

  “Then what?”

  “A kid came in and announced someone was breaking into a Jeep. I headed for the door, and when I opened it, my Jeep exploded.”

  “What did the kid look like?”

  Bertha said, “Who?”

  “The one that announced the break-in.”

  “I don’t know. Could you please go check on that nurse?”

  “I can hear the cart in the hall. She’s coming.”

  Bertha listened but didn’t hear the cart. She looked at Chubby suspiciously, then remembered her hearing loss.

  Chubby said, “We’re going to put a man on the door to make sure you’re safe.”

  Bertha nodded. Closing her eyes and lying back, she wished she was anywhere but in a hospital bed talking to the police. She wished she could go to a place where her old life waited for her to take it up again. When she opened her eyes again the police were gone.

  A nurse, who looked somewhat familiar, pushed the med cart in the door, with Gray Hair following. She handed Bertha a small paper cup containing three rather large pills, then poured some water from the fresh pitcher on the nightstand. “We have antibiotics and a painkiller.”

  Bertha tossed the pills into her mouth and drank them down. The cold water briefly added to her headache.

  “You’re looking much better this morning,” the nurse said, as she produced a tube of salve for Bertha’s hands and applied it thickly, then systematically started dressing one then the other. “You’ll need to keep the right hand covered for three days. The left bandage can come off with your next shower. The doctor will release you this afternoon. You’ll need to follow up with your own doctor within a week unless you have problems.”

  “Will I have prescriptions?” Bertha asked, thinking mostly of the pain pills.

  “Yes. He’ll send you home with antibiotics and some topical cream for the burns. You can use Tylenol for pain.”

  “Tylenol? You’re kidding.” Even though Bertha hadn’t asked her to, in fact had asked her repeatedly not to, Toni’s job had become pointing out that while Bertha was sober now, she’d abused painkillers in the past and Tylenol didn’t work; none of the over-the-counter painkillers worked. Bertha walked a tightrope with prescription painkillers; they were only effective for three or four days. If she increased the dosage, that amount would stop working and on and on. Years ago, after knee surgery, she’d been on Vicodin long enough to have withdrawal symptoms when she stopped taking them.

  The nurse, who looked like she’d been asked to change the cat box, said, “If you need more, talk to the doctor. But we don’t want you to have problems with them.”

  That’s when Bertha knew that her drug addiction was on her chart somewhere. Through her teeth, Bertha said, “Talk to him yourself.”

  Breakfast was suddenly thrust onto her bed tray. Now four of them were there: the nurse, the two detectives, and the nurse’s aide, who pulled the covers from her plates. Oatmeal today and scrambled eggs, probably from powder, and a glass of some kind of juice stared up at her. She would have preferred Little Debbie Cakes. “More coffee,” she said, and they all looked at each other.

  Within minutes the detectives apologized for bothering her and told her to phone if she thought of anything else. The aide brought another carafe of coffee and the nurse disappeared. Bertha took a few bites of the food and poured more coffee. But the phone rang. She reached to the nightstand, and her burned hand bumped the flower vase as she felt around for the phone. She swore, then, still smarting from the pain, she said, “Hello.”

  Alvin said, “How you doing this morning?”

  “I feel like shit. The hospital is no place for sick people.”

  He said, “You seem to be able to hear me today.”

  “Hearing’s gradually improving, but it’s not as good as it used to be. I’ve had a parade of people in this morning.”

  “Parade?”

  “You know. A couple of the city’s finest with a bunch of questions. A pregnant girl who made me take a shower, and a nurse who pushed a med cart into my room and told me I was getting Tylenol for pain.”

  “I’m sorry. You want me to rough her up?”

  Bertha smiled. “Don’t bother. I’m going home this afternoon.”

  “Good.”

  “You at work?”

  “Yeah. This place is a madhouse. Your cases have been reassigned or postponed. We’re all running around like chickens with our heads pulled off.”

  “Sorry. I’d rather be there than here.”

  “I called to tell you I stopped at your house last night and this morning. I could hear Snuggles meowing, but he wouldn’t come out. I left food last night and it was gone this morning. So I opened another can and filled the water dish.”

  “What would Norman and I do without you?”

  “Who’s Norman?”

  “I renamed the cat. Snuggles is now Norman Bates.”

  Alvin chuckled. “You want me to pick you up?”

  “When?”

  “You said you were getting out today. I can come by after work. About four or four thirty.”

  “Would you? That sounds wonderful.”

  “I’ll see you this afternoon. If you need anything before then, call me.”

  Bertha didn’t want to hang up, but she was tired and felt the painkiller taking hold. She wanted to go back to sleep to a friendly voice. “Do you think I’ll get my clothes back?”

  “I don’t know. Probably not. I think they cut them off in the ER.”

  “They can’t send me out of here without clothes.”

  “You have something you want me to pick up?”

  Bertha thought for a moment. “In my closet, there’s a laundry basket. Pull some sweats out and bring the least soiled.”

  “I’ll bring a couple and you can decide.”

  “Sounds good.” She reached to hang up the phone and her hand brushed the vase again. This time it wobbled and crashed to the floor. She swore at the pain and, hanging onto the bed rail, saw shattered glass, the splashed and puddled water, and flowers, a riot of colors strewn on the floor next to her bed. She still held the phone and turned more carefully to hang it up.

  There, hidden behind the vase, was the Diet Pepsi can, a bent straw from her water glass sticking out just the way Billie had placed it the night before. This would be the time to call the detectives. But she didn’t. Instead she lay there feeling like a ghost who’d mistakenly walked into the real world. She pushed the call button, and a disembodied female voice asked what she needed. “I knocked a vase on my nightstand over. There’s glass everywhere.”

  “I’ll call a custodian.”

  “Thanks.”

  So Billie had visited her. But she’d disappeared. What the hell did that mean? And who the hell had died?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Bertha sat at the kitchen island with Alvin, as they quietly ate greasy po’boys he’d picked up at O’Malley’s Tavern on the way home. It was seven p.m. and Bertha was exhausted. Norman Bates came into the kitchen and meowed with a demanding where-the-hell-have-you-been cat tenor. He glared at them and then jumped on the countertop and sat next to Bertha’s paper plate. Alvin pulled a small piece of beef from his po’boy and set it next to the cat, who ate it quickly.

  Alvin’d fed the cat his own food before he divided up their dinners. “He can’t still be hungry.”

  “He is a pretty demanding b
astard, isn’t he?”

  Alvin scratched the orange cat’s ears. “He’s probably had a hard life.”

  “Probably.” Bertha picked up the last bite of her sandwich, shoved it in her mouth, and said, “Hang on to him.” She hurried into her bedroom and laid the vent across the hole; in the kitchen, she did the same. Norman jumped down and sat next to her, watching as she replaced the screws.

  Alvin gathered paper plates and plastic silverware and tossed them all in the trashcan. “Can I help you with anything else?”

  “Thanks, but I’m going to sack out.” She stroked Norman’s head and then remembered. “Can you scoop the cat box?”

  Alvin’s brows knitted, but he got up and went into the pantry. He scooped, bagged, and carried all the trash out again. While washing up at the sink, he said, “You going to be all right here alone? We have a guest room.”

  “You’ve done enough. I’ll be fine. If someone were to bother me, I’m too tired to even notice.”

  “How about I set you up on the couch with a pillow and blanket, so you can watch TV?”

  “I have a TV in the bedroom if I want it. Right now the only thing I’d be interested in is Jimmy Kimmel, and he isn’t on for hours. I’ll be asleep before then.”

  “Okay,” Alvin said, gathering his keys. “Call if you need anything.” He let himself out, and Bertha and Norman Bates made their way to the bedroom. She put the TV on with the sound down and stretched out across the unmade bed. Through the front window, she watched rain slant down in the dark; then the street was shiny with the headlights of a car passing slowly. That was the last Bertha remembered. During the night she woke and turned over. Norman was lying next to her legs. Jimmy Kimmel was on TV. She closed her eyes again and didn’t open them until late morning.

  *

  Barefoot, Bertha walked stiffly on her way into the kitchen to start fresh coffee. The house was cool and her joints felt taut. Norman Bates zigzagged between her legs, talking to her as she walked. She fed him, then started the coffee. She could see how it was going to be with him, but she didn’t mind. He was company who wouldn’t be leaving. Back in her bedroom, she pulled the bandage off her forehead and checked the mirror. She wearily stepped out of her clothes and examined the fading burns on her hands and arms, all of which looked much better than the night before. In the shower, she set the water on a moderate temperature and let it run on her back while trying to protect her burned hands.

  Afterward, she pulled on an old, faded pair of jeans and a loose-fitting, gold-colored sweat-shirt. The kitchen smelled of fresh coffee. She took a mug and a box of Pop-Tarts into the sunken family room and turned the TV to a morning news show. The phone rang. She hesitated, then picked it up.

  “Yellow.”

  “Ms. Brannon?”

  “Yes. This is she.”

  “This is Mrs. Godfrey from Golden Promise. First of all, your grandma is fine. Second, she’s run out of underpants.”

  “Underpants?” This was a new one.

  “Yes. Sometimes these folks make a mess and just throw them away. Running out of underpants is fairly common.”

  “You think she threw them away?”

  “I honestly don’t know what happened to them,” Mrs. Godfrey said. “I just know that she needs ten new pairs.”

  Bertha blinked in disbelief. “She was raised during the Depression. She rarely throws anything away.”

  “Nevertheless,” Mrs. Godfrey said, “she needs ten new pairs.”

  Bertha told her she’d get some later in the afternoon. Then she remembered the Jeep. The last time she’d seen it, it’d been in pieces all over South Fifth. She’d have to find the keys to Toni’s Honda. They kept extra ones above the sink in a lead-crystal coffee cup. She could manage a short trip to Walmart and the nursing home. She needed some other things anyway, including Little Debbie Cakes and cat food soon. She decided to make a list and sat on the sofa with a pencil and paper: ten pairs of cotton underpants, coffee, three cans of Fancy Feast, Tylenol, six boxes of Little Debbie Chocolate Cakes, and more Pop-Tarts. She could hear Toni saying, “You need some protein,” so she added chunky peanut butter.

  Stretching out, she put her feet on the coffee table and kicked the remote with her left foot, and as she reached for it, a newspaper rolled to the floor. Alvin’d left several for her to read or throw out. She picked up one and peeled the rubber band off. On the front page was a picture of the street, where the buildings and her car looked much worse than she remembered. She skimmed the story. One dead. Several treated at the hospital. Seven admitted, including Judge Brannon, whose car was ground zero.

  She opened two more newspapers, but the first was the only one with a picture. She wanted to find out who died in the explosion, but the name wasn’t there. She found no new information, so she stacked the papers on the end of the sofa and stood to get ready to leave.

  *

  Late that afternoon, Bertha found Grandma in the noisy dining room, all dressed up and waiting for dinner. Crossing the room slowly, her bandaged hand shoved into her jeans pocket, she took in the sights, smells, and sounds of the dining-room routine. She pulled an empty chair from another table and sat down, but Grandma didn’t notice her because she was focused on a man in a wheelchair next to hers; he couldn’t be Albert, the new white and younger beau, because this guy was in his eighties, maybe late eighties or ninety. And he certainly wasn’t white. His eyes were the color of molasses. Clean-shaven and thin, he was the only man in the dining room with a white shirt and tie. If he wasn’t so damn old, he could be mistaken for a doctor.

  From behind her came a stage whisper. “Addie gets all the men.”

  Bertha turned to see another resident leaning toward her. The woman had a round face, a bit too much blush on her powered cheeks, and a penciled-in beauty mark below her right eye.

  “Has she got this guy?” Bertha whispered.

  The woman’s head bobbed up and down. “Oh, yes. Definitely. I think it’s one of them Halle Berry things.”

  Bertha twisted back toward Grandma and saw the little man wheeling away.

  “Grandma?”

  Grandma turned and then a smile spread across her face. “Baby. What happened to your head?”

  Bertha touched her forehead. She’d forgotten the square flesh-colored bandage. “It got bumped.”

  “How come they don’t make brown flesh-colored bandages?” Grandma said. “The body who invents them will get rich.”

  “Who’s your new friend?” Bertha asked.

  “Who, Charlie?” Grandma looked after him as he rolled toward another table. “He’s a new guy. I’s just trying to be friendly.”

  After a moment, during which Bertha thought she might need to get Grandma’s attention again, she said, “How you doing?”

  “Fine,” Grandma said. “Charlie got a helluva story. He’s the director of plays at the Summer Theater. An artistic man.”

  “That so?”

  Grandma nodded, still watching him. “His wife was…” Grandma cupped her hand in front of her mouth. “Screwing around.”

  “No!”

  Grandma nodded. “It’s true. When he got sick, the wife moved a man in to help her with lifting and the bathroom and so forth. Then one night Charlie suspected this guy was sleeping in his wife’s room. So he got out of the bed and crawled to the closet, got his shotgun, and loaded it. But he wore hisself out. He’d crawled halfway down the hall, dragging the rifle. They found him like that. So they put him here.”

  Bertha chuckled at the funny story. Probably not so funny for Charlie, but he seemed to be doing all right. She wondered how Grandma got to be the belle of the dining room and decided it had to be personality.

  Grandma swatted at her. “Stop that laughing. He could of killed both of them. He’s a passionate man. Me and him’s the only ones round here that got any passion left.”

  Personality and passion maybe, Bertha thought, but no underpants. “You still visiting with Albert?”

 
; Grandma’s eyes grew wide. “Who told you ’bout Albert?”

  “You did.”

  “All these heifers round here do is gossip.”

  “Grandma.” Bertha touched her arm. “You told me. Aunt Lucy was here that day.”

  “Lucille was here? My memory ain’t so good. How is she?”

  “Fine.”

  “What you got there with you? Did you bring me some candy?”

  “I did.” Bertha passed the bag to Grandma. “Chocolate creams.”

  “Baby, that so sweet.” Grandma stuck her nose in the blue Walmart bag. “What else you got in here?”

  “Underpants. I thought you might be ready for some new ones. There’s pink and blue and white with little ribbons in the front.”

  “Charlie gonna love these.”

  “Charlie?”

  Grandma held her finger before her lips and cautioned her softly. “Quiet, now.”

  “What you mean? Charlie?”

  Grandma pulled the box of chocolates from the bag and struggled to get them open.

  “Let me.” While Bertha pried the lid from the box, she saw Grandma take a pink pair of underpants out of the bag and hold them up in front of her.

  “These are pretty. This place has taught me that you got to take your beauty from right where you are, or go without it.”

  “I’m glad you like them.” A glance around the room told Bertha that they were the center of attention. She set the open box of chocolates on the table.

  Grandma, making eye contact with Charlie, raised both eyebrows and smiled a toothless smile, waving the underpants in front of her. She then bent three bony fingers to her palm, leaving the thumb and little finger sticking out, put her hand close to her ear, and mouthed, “Call me.”

  Elbows on the table, Bertha rubbed her temples. “Are you giving your underpants to Charlie?”

  Grandma squinted at Bertha. “That’s personal.”

  Bertha reached for a chocolate cream, shoved it in her mouth, and mumbled, “You’re right. I know way too much already.”

  By the time all the chocolate creams were gone, the dinner trays arrived. Grandma insisted that Bertha stay and eat overcooked spaghetti, green beans, applesauce, and a bowl of vanilla pudding.