Widow

by Martha Miller

  As Grandma gummed her spaghetti, she said, “You and Doree can live with us.”

  “Us who?”

  “Me and Charlie.” Grandma turned to face Bertha. She had a smear of marinara sauce on her chin.

  With a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach, Bertha asked, “Where you two gonna live?”

  “My house, of course.”

  Up until now Grandma had known that they’d sold her house to pay for the first year in Golden Promise. All that was left of her life before the nursing home was some furniture and six boxes that she’d helped Bertha pack and stack in a small storage unit. Some places did encourage seniors on Medicare to try to live at home with home health care, but Grandma had been too far gone for that. Of course that didn’t mean someone might try to convince Grandma to go home. “Aren’t you and Charlie going a little too fast?”

  “Got to,” mumbled Grandma with her mouth full. “At my age, I don’t have time to play hard to get. Me and Charlie can make a good life at my house. When you get to your ninety-sixth birthday, you have to live life all the way—take risks and do things you can’t imagine. I always thought I’d remarry when your grandpa was gone.”

  After that Bertha ate quietly, glad about Grandma’s good humor and wondering how soon she’d have to remind her about the house. By the time she was ready to leave she was full and incredibly tired.

  Outside, the blended sounds of four lanes of rush-hour traffic produced a muffled din. The sun was setting and the radiance in the west was phenomenal. To her left the three-story, brick Gothic-looking building with a white-granite façade cast long purple shadows. She stopped near a raised and empty flowerbed at the edge of the parking lot and saw an oil rainbow fleeing across a puddle behind Toni’s car; she hadn’t seen that since she was a kid when oil and exhaust were often expelled from automobiles. She briefly wondered if something was wrong with Toni’s car, then dismissed the thought.

  The last of the sunlight reflected off windshields and the building. Her thoughts returned to Grandma. Something had been different, but she couldn’t place it. Certainly her renewed desire for romance puzzled Bertha. She remembered Toni, more than five years ago, saying apologetically that she was too tired for their customary Saturday-morning sex. Bertha’d told her that their relationship was about much more than sex. And it had been. No matter how many Saturdays they missed, the love and companionship they shared went far beyond the physical. In fact she’d sometimes wondered what all that was about. Sexuality and sex had been the most important thing about her at one time. By the time it slowed down, like most long-term couples, their relationship had, in addition to deep and steadfast love, intimacy and inertia.

  Memory was strange; sometimes what you ended up remembering wasn’t always the same as what you truly witnessed. Bertha remembered a comfortable connectedness with Toni, a love that had changed them both for the better. Before Toni she’d wondered if she’d ever live the life she was supposed to live, the life she wanted although she couldn’t articulate what it was. Grandma had assured her that she had her own compass inside that would lead her in the right direction. At age thirteen she’d believed that, but by age twenty it seemed like an abstract concept she’d never understand. Now here was Grandma at the end of her life, older than most folks dreamed of living, and there were Albert and Charlie and missing underwear. Moreover, Grandma had quit swearing. She hadn’t dropped an “F” bomb all evening. Maybe she’d had a stroke, or maybe she’d found something to take its place.

  Pulling into the driveway at home, Bertha saw a small wire cage on the front porch. It seemed like years ago since she’d talked to Maggie, the cat lady, about Norman Bates. Inside, Bertha put three bags on the counter and played the answering machine. Pop Wilson said, “I stopped at the hospital to see you, but you’d gone home. Guess that’s a good sign. Give me a call when you feel up to pancakes again.”

  Later that evening when Alvin called, she’d already added a couple of Little Debbie Cakes to the dinner she’d eaten at Golden Promise. Chocolate was a decent substitute for prescription painkillers.

  “Listen,” Bertha said. “I’m getting around much better today. Thank you for all your help, but I don’t need anything tonight. I’m actually thinking of coming to work tomorrow.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Why was it that when you offered someone something nice, people came back with, are you sure? “Positive.”

  “Don’t you need a doctor’s release to come back to work?”

  Bertha shrugged, then realized Alvin couldn’t see her. “I don’t think so.”

  “How’s your hearing?”

  “Okay, I think. How do you know what you can’t hear anyway?”

  As it turned out, Bertha didn’t go back to work until the following Monday. That morning when the weekend arrest folders were put on her desk, she recognized the name of January Johnson.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Bertha drove down South Fifth Street at least once a day. By Saturday evening, Rita’s Pizzeria was open with its the porthole window boarded up, as were windows in surrounding buildings. The pizzeria door had been replaced. The Crones Nest remained dark and empty, a handwritten sign next to the door reading Temporarily Closed.

  Her Jeep had been swept up and taken to a garage that generally towed wrecked cars; some pieces were unrecognizable, and one of the wheels was never found, so she was positive the insurance company would total it. However, they were stalling, wanting police reports while the storage fees built up. Bertha was getting used to Toni’s little black, straight-shift Civic.

  Monday morning, Alvin followed her into her office with the usual coffee. He claimed she was easier to talk to when she had caffeine. Bertha thought he was wrong, but she enjoyed the coffee and especially liked having it brought to her.

  Steam rose from the cup as he placed it before her. Bertha sipped, scalding the roof of her mouth and her tongue.

  Alvin said, “Easy does it, Boss.”

  She swallowed and the liquid burnt all the way down. “Ain’t I been burnt enough?”

  “Sorry.”

  “You microwave the coffee?”

  “How was I supposed to know you’d try to chug it?”

  Answering a question with a question was one of Alvin’s favorite defenses. In fact, most people did it. Toni used to get about six lines ahead of her in the conversation—it had been an art—so having been trained by the best, Bertha was used to it and let it go, because the alternative of pointing out the non-answer would be exhausting. She picked up the cup and sipped this time. “Tell me this stuff isn’t left over from Friday.”

  “It’s not left over from Friday. Walter, the floating bailiff, made it when he got in at six and then shut it off. So it was only lukewarm.”

  Bertha blew into the cup. “I hope Alice is enjoying her Carnival Cruise.”

  “Me too.”

  “I don’t really have much use for my tongue anyway.”

  “I’m sorry, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  January Johnson the first on the pile of weekend arrests. Of course, this was a dilemma; she’d made a deal in exchange for an interview of sorts, and she didn’t want to renege, even though making those kinds of deals was unethical and illegal. Maybe, with a good attorney, Johnson could garner a plea agreement or get some charges dropped. Bertha could see to it that the hooker got a decent defense attorney.

  In the past she’d occasionally bent the rules to help someone, but she drew the line at breaking the law. If someone found out, she had a lot to lose. Her black robe was the only thing between her and the abyss. Why had she talked to the woman anyway? She could see the headlines, Circuit Judge charged with taking a bribe. If Bertha had learned anything of value from her, she sure couldn’t see it. Okay. No one called the shooting in. One of the shooters came back and talked to Fred Cook—probably threatened him. But until she figured out what those things meant, she had nothing.

  Bertha sorted through the remaini
ng arrest reports. She took a sip of the still-too-hot coffee and decided she didn’t have time to get it cool enough to drink. She stood and crossed the room for her robe. Of the nine arrests over the weekend, four DUIs, an assault and battery, and the usual drunk and disorderly—only one was prostitution. Usually hookers came in large groups. Cops would set up a sting and haul them in several at a time. So if that wasn’t the case, how did Ms. Johnson end up in county?

  While fastening the robe, Bertha stopped and said to Alvin, “I’ve got January Johnson on my docket this morning. You know of her?”

  “Black-blond hooker?”

  Bertha nodded. “That’s the one.”

  Alvin shrugged. “Her pimp’ll get her out.”

  “Make sure she comes up last.”

  “No problem.” Alvin held the door for her and they headed for the courtroom.

  Inside, a rough-looking group filed in past the bailiff and took their seats. Three white men and a white woman, and four black men and what could be a black woman. What in the hell had happened to her? A swollen lip, bloodshot eyes, a bruise on her cheek deep enough that it showed against her milk-chocolate skin, no blond wig, no tight jeans, no push-up bra—this didn’t look like the woman Bertha had made the promise to. Her hair was short and slicked back, and her white T-shirt was covered with large spots of blood and grime. She limped in and sat with the group, her head hung while each defendant was called up. Bertha looked around the room for the pimp. Maybe he was waiting downstairs. Had he been the one that roughed her up? According to the laws of the street, it was his prerogative.

  When Johnson’s arraignment came up, the courtroom was practically empty. Bertha signaled the ADA, Gussy Pratt, to approach. She covered the microphone as she leaned forward to talk. “What is the story on this hooker?”

  Gussy had been a paralegal in Bertha’s law office several years before. She was older than the other ADAs, but she’d found her niche. Looking down at her frizzy red hair, Bertha could see at least two inches of dark roots. Dark roots were becoming popular with young kids, but it was hard to believe that Gussy gave any thought to fashion. Her thick ankles overflowed black orthopedic shoes that squeaked on the hardwood floor. Her unbuttoned blazer was dusty or chalky looking. She only had one court outfit. She wasn’t going to get rich in the District Attorney’s office, but she loved prosecuting. It was a calling. Gussy looked at her notes. “She resisted arrest. This says she approached the officer.” Gussy eyed the defendant.

  “That’s strange. She knows better than to proposition the police.”

  “One would think,” Gussy said. “This one was in uniform.”

  “Officer outside?”

  “Should be.”

  “Bring him in,” Bertha said.

  Gussy cocked her head as if she wanted to question this demand but didn’t hesitate long. She walked back through the gate and to the courtroom door. Then she approached with the uniformed officer. He was the young guy Bertha had seen the night she talked to January Johnson—the beat cop. He was a head taller than Gussy.

  Bertha said, “You arrest this woman?”

  “Yes, your honor.”

  “Why?”

  He cleared his throat and turned his back to the defendant. “She propositioned me. I tried to send her on her way, but it was like she wanted to get arrested. She just wouldn’t move on.”

  “She look like that when she approached you?”

  The officer nodded. “She had the blond wig. Otherwise, yes.”

  Bertha looked at the folder and back across the bench. “This says she resisted arrest.”

  “She did.”

  “If you didn’t want to arrest her, how’d that come about?”

  He whispered, “She assaulted me.”

  Bertha wrinkled her forehead. “How’d she do that? A big guy like you?”

  “She grabbed my, ah…” He looked downward.

  Bertha turned to Gussy, who was looking at the officer’s crotch. “Miss Pratt, can you throw any of this out?”

  “This is her fourth arrest,” Gussy said.

  Here was the ADA a couple of lines ahead in the conversation. Bertha hadn’t asked how many times she’d been arrested; she wanted a simple yes or no, so in response she said, “I’m throwing some of it out. You tell me what or I’ll figure it out on my own.”

  The ADA’s face turned scarlet as she stammered, “I suppose we could throw out the prostitution and drop the resisting to D and D.”

  “Was she drunk?” Bertha asked the officer.

  “She had to be.”

  Bertha turned to the bailiff. “Bring Ms. Johnson forward.”

  As she moved toward the bench, Bertha saw more injuries. Her right eye was practically swollen shut. Bertha said, “Do you need a doctor, Ms. Johnson?”

  “No, thank you, Judge.”

  Bertha said, “You’re charged with drunk and disorderly behavior. How do you plead?”

  Johnson’s eyes widened with surprise, and then she said, “Guilty.”

  Bertha, who had been ready to release her on a ten-dollar bond, hesitated. “Can you repeat that?”

  “I’m pleading guilty, your honor.”

  “Have you spoken to an attorney?”

  “Don’t need one,” the hooker said. “I did it. I’m guilty.”

  “So you’ve decided to act as your own attorney?”

  “Yes.” Johnson had scratches on her arms and neck. If the pimp was her batterer, she would have injuries where they couldn’t be seen—not this.

  So this woman wanted to spend some time in jail. She was saying she’d be safer in a cell than on the street. “One-hundred-dollar fine and fifteen days in jail.” Bertha turned to Gussy Pratt. “See if we can get a doctor to look at her.”

  “Yes, Judge.” Gussy’s face was scarlet. Her job should have ended with the guilty plea.

  Walter, the bailiff, took the defendant away, and Pratt gathered her papers, slipped all of them in a leather bag, and exited the now-empty courtroom. Bertha headed back to her office where she decided, in spite of a full afternoon, to go out for lunch. She invited Alvin, but he had other plans.

  As she entered the parking garage, she considered her options. Fast food would work if she brought it back with her or ate it in the car. But the little car still smelled like Toni’s cigarettes and that bothered her on this day, so she couldn’t eat there. She got in the Honda and drove down the ramp to the first floor, where assigned spots for the mayor and his staff, which weren’t used half the time, sat empty. In a shaded corner, she spotted something and slowed down. It was a grocery-store cart full of plastic garbage bags. She swung the car into the mayor’s spot and shut off the engine. Before she was halfway there, she heard a male voice.

  “What’s up, Judge?”

  “Not much.” She slid her hands into her pockets. “How’s the horse-rustling business going?”

  Hootie Martin laughed. “The things we have to do to stay dry on a rainy night.”

  Bertha could see him clearly now. His glasses were taped together on one corner, and a black overcoat puddled around him, an amorphous silhouette. The stubble on his face said he hadn’t shaved in three or four days.

  “Not raining today,” he added. “No, sir. Clear sky.”

  “You know a hooker named January Johnson?”

  Hootie frowned, shaking his head no.

  “Think about it.” Bertha was pretty damn sure he knew her.

  Holding onto the wire grocery cart, he rose to his feet. “What if I do?”

  Bertha shrugged as casually as she could. “I just wondered who beat her up. Do you have a hunch?”

  “Ain’t that what pimps are for?”

  “I don’t know. I went to law school so I wouldn’t have to peddle my ass on the street.” Bertha moved closer to Hootie and could smell his unwashed body.

  “Well, most figure it was her pimp.”

  “You know his name?”

  “Judge,” Hootie said, “you’re asking s
ome dangerous questions.”

  Beyond the shaded corner of the parking garage, the street was bright yellow from the autumn sun. The cold air made Bertha’s still-tender ears hurt. The explosion had done its damage. The hearing in her right ear would never be the same. Finally she asked, “What would it take to get some answers about that beat-up hooker?”

  Hootie pretended to consider this and at length said, “I sure could use a pack of smokes.”

  She’d broken a twenty at a convenience store that morning. The bills were still in her right front pocket. She scratched through a few ones and came up with two fives. “This do it?”

  He reached for the cash. “You ain’t gonna want to hear this, but it was a cop.”

  Had she heard right? “A cop beat her up?”

  “That’s the word going around.”

  “Who?”

  Hootie shook his head. “Dun’ know.”

  “It couldn’t be the beat cop.”

  Hootie dug a change purse out of his coat pocket, folded the bills, and put them inside. He shrugged. “Don’t think so. Maybe someone higher up.”

  Bertha’s brows knitted. “Why would a cop beat her up?”

  Hootie smiled, showing his missing eyeteeth. “You know, the simplest answer is usually the right one.” Hootie held up two fingers. “First, it was personal. She betrayed the cop somehow, or second, she found out something she wasn’t supposed to know. Course, seems like a cop woulda just killed her, unless he was trying to get information out of her.”

  Disembodied, from across the cold concrete garage, high in the corner, she watched herself—there in the parking garage, in a conversation with a homeless man—trying to put it all together. Scottie was dead because of her snooping, and add to that the victim of the Jeep explosion; maybe Billie was dead by now too. She had to talk to January Johnson. She promised herself that she’d do it when the afternoon session was over. She said “Adios” to Hootie and returned to her car.

  Right now, Bertha would rather work at a junkyard at the end of the world than know the answers to these questions. She wanted to be free from the beat-up hooker. She missed Toni terribly. This was the kind of thing they sometimes talked about.