Returning from lunch with a half-eaten bag from McDonald’s, Bertha had five minutes to finish. That afternoon she had traffic court, then a marriage and two divorces. She watched the clock as she ate. She’d take the time to talk to January this afternoon. As she took her seat on at the bench, she saw the room was full and thought it might be a long one.
*
The vermillion sun was setting in the west and a brisk wind blew Bertha’s coat open as she crossed the street to the county jail. Inside, dropping her keys into a plastic container and walking through the metal detector, she made her way past a security station. She’d had a long afternoon and was tired and hungry as she walked to the elevators.
The jail started on the third floor. The holding cells were on the second. Bertha wasn’t sure where January Johnson was being held so she waited at the desk on the second floor. The room seemed empty, but finally she saw an older woman (older than Bertha, at least) across the room, working in a cubicle.
She called out to the woman, who was focused on the computer screen in front of her and was startled.
The woman stood and hurried to the front desk. In a breathless voice she said, “Sorry, Judge Brannon. We don’t have anyone but me in the evenings. Visiting hours are over. George is back there behind the glass for people making bail.”
Bertha said, “No problem.”
“How can I help you?”
“January Johnson was sentenced to fifteen days. Is she here or upstairs?”
“Oh. I was just processing that. They took her up an hour ago.”
“Thanks.”
The walls on three were institutional green. If an inmate wasn’t already depressed, the melancholy environment would do the trick. Too warm with her coat on, Bertha shed it and was buzzed into a dismal room.
She’d known the deputy on duty for several years. He barely hid his surprise to see her. “Bertha Brannon, what you doing up here when there’s a million places better?”
“How’s it going, Max?”
“Can’t complain. What you need, Judge?”
Beyond a steel door were the cells. Usually they smelled like a zoo and were overflowing. On the left, women were housed in a large dorm room with an open toilet and sink. Cots were added or removed, depending on the number of female inmates.
“I’m here to talk to Ms. Johnson.”
“The white one or the black one?”
“Black.”
He pointed to a hall. “Interview room’s down there. I’ll get her.”
The room had a crappy-looking table and three folding chairs. One wall was a two-way mirror and a camera. It seemed like forever before the door opened and Johnson limped in.
“I’d rather not record,” Bertha told the deputy.
He nodded. “I’ll be right outside the door if you need me.”
January Johnson took a seat. “What you want?”
Bertha tried to meet her eyes but couldn’t. “Who assaulted you?”
“Just like that? No, hi, how are you?”
“You asked what I wanted. That’s it.”
January nodded. “My manager.”
“Your pimp? Word’s out that it was a police officer.”
The woman met her eyes then, her own wide with fear. Her brown forehead had a metallic sheen. At length she said, “Please don’t get involved in this. I’ll do my time and pay the fine and be out of your hair forever.”
“I just want to know who hurt you.”
“I told you, Lionel Russet.”
Bertha lowered her voice. “I told you my lover, a cop, was killed a few months ago.”
“I remember. I told you all I knew.”
“The only thing that makes sense is that someone involved in that mess came after you. I told you Scottie was beaten to death. Looks to me like someone tried to do the same with you.”
“But it was my pimp. I wanted to stay inside until he ain’t mad no more. Till he misses the money I bring in.”
Another time Bertha would have stuck with it, would have reached with her fingers into this woman’s mind and got the information she sought, but she was tired and January Johnson was dug in. What Bertha knew about prostitutes in general was that they’d do anything to get into another line of work. They were often depressed and lonely, usually the victims of childhood abuse with no self-esteem.
But none of that had occurred to her the first time she talked to January Johnson. That night in the Jeep, she’d seemed self-confident, well dressed, and actually rather pretty. She hadn’t had the symptoms of drug addiction that Bertha saw so often in court. Of course, by the time addicts were before the bench, they were strung out. If this woman had a habit, fifteen days in jail were going to be pure hell. And it would take something pretty big for her to volunteer for that. Bertha tried to meet Johnson’s eyes, but the woman wouldn’t look at her. Finally, she pulled a card out of her back pocket and laid it on the table. “If you want to talk about anything, call me.”
And that was that. She was on her way through a fast-food drive-up when her cell rang. She checked the caller ID and answered. “Doree, how are you?”
“I’m fine. So when did we get a cat?”
Chapter Fifteen
Great, thought Bertha, I needed one more damn thing. She was exhausted. Although she knew the answer, she asked, “Where are you?”
“Uh. I’m home.”
“Why are you home?”
“Things were so bad there, I just couldn’t take it.”
“We’ll have to talk about that. Does your aunt know where you are?”
“Yeah. I left her a note.” Then Doree changed the subject. “There’s nothing to eat here.”
Bertha’s was the next car up to order. She’d have to get Doree’s dinner too. While she waited, she asked, “How did you get all the way from Indianapolis?”
“Got to go. The cat’s on the counter.”
“Call your aunt—”
At home, holding three McDonald’s bags, Bertha started across the garage and felt her knees begin to give just a little. She stopped and waited to collect herself, to feel the firm ground again. She considered telling Doree the whole thing—giving her a good scare and sending her back. Once again she wasn’t sure what to do. Was that a raising-a-teenager thing, or was it a boundaries thing that she never could get right, even with grown-ups? What would Grandma, back in the day, have done? Grandma’d been on top of everything when Bertha was a teen. She caught her in most of the serious lies and there were consequences. But Doree had just lost her mother. This was her home. How could Bertha keep her safe? Even as she opened the door, Bertha wondered what she should do.
Doree sat on the sofa in the family room holding Norman Bates. The cat got a whiff of the fast food and jumped down. Doree stood and ran to Bertha, giving her an awkward embrace. “I’m sorry.”
Bertha disentangled herself and carried their dinner to the kitchen. How could she fuss at the kid when the kid had already apologized? As she laid out the food—two milk shakes, cheeseburgers, and fries—Bertha said, “I am angry with you right now.”
Dramatically, Doree repeated, “I’m sorry.”
“What happened in Indianapolis? Is this about Erik?”
Doree shrugged. “Only a little.”
Bertha settled herself on a stool next to the island “What else then?”
“Advanced Algebra. When I started classes, they were ahead of where we were in my class here at home. I failed the last two tests. I was making an A back here. I want to go to my own school and have the same teacher.” Doree picked at her fries, and a tear started its way down her cheek. “Please. Can I stay here? I’ll do whatever you say.”
“Honey, there are things you don’t understand—”
“Then help me understand. I’m not a child.” Doree’s tears were flowing in earnest.
Bertha dug into the McDonald’s bag and pulled out a wad of napkins and handed them to Doree, who turned away from the counter and blew her nose, then s
aid, “Thanks.”
Lately Bertha felt she was plodding straight ahead like some kind of bewildered plow horse, turning over one row and then the next. So she said what needed to be said. “My Jeep was blown up a week ago.”
Doree sniffed, her eyes red and watery. “Are you all right?”
“I am, thank you. But my hands and my right temple looked like bruised fruit for several days. I spent the night in the hospital and am still under a doctor’s care for my ears.”
Doree craned her neck, checking first one than the other. “They look all right to me.”
“My hearing. At first I couldn’t hear anything. I may not get all of it back in my right ear. We’re waiting to see. The other injuries are healing. You can barely see them. Since the night of the Jeep explosion at least one person is dead and another is missing.” Bertha decided not to mention January Johnson, but she was sure her assault had something to do with Toni’s death.
Doree started her cheeseburger and, between bites, still chewing, she asked, “How was it blown up? Was there an accident?”
“An explosive of some kind.”
“My God.” After a silence, Doree pushed Norman Bates off the counter. He jumped back up, closer to Bertha this time. Doree observed for a moment. “You let him up here?”
“Nobody lets this cat do anything. He has a mind of his own.”
Smiling, Doree said, “So what’s his name?”
“Norman Bates.”
“Who’s Norman Bates? That kid on the TV show?” Doree tore off a small piece of cheese and set it before the cat. “He has a great personality.”
“Another Bates from an old Hitchcock movie.”
Doree put her thoughts in reverse. “Who’s dead?”
“Someone from the explosion that hasn’t been identified yet. Then the woman who drove the bus, I mean the ambulance, the night your mother was killed was assaulted right after talking to me. She died in the hospital.”
“Is there a connection?”
“I think so.” Bertha nodded. “That’s why I don’t want you staying here.”
Doree’s eyes grew wide. “Was my mother murdered?”
Bertha hesitated. At length she decided only the truth could protect the girl, so she said, “I think so. I don’t know who did it or why, but I’m trying to find out. In the meantime, whoever did it is coming after me. I was meant to die when the Jeep exploded.”
“No. That can’t be right. Those kind of things only happen in movies.”
Bertha slid off her stool, went around the island, and embraced the kid. She held her, rocking slightly. Even the cat seemed to care. He nudged her arm, but then he snatched what was left of her cheeseburger, jumped off the counter, and hurried away.
Doree laughed and drew in a shuttering breath. “Have you told the police?”
At the mention of the police, Bertha felt she’d been kicked in the chest, but she kept breathing anyway. Again she asked herself how much she should say, and again the answer came that not knowing could put the kid in danger. Suppose she got into a police car?
“I don’t trust the police right now.”
“But—”
The phone rang and, grateful for the interruption, Bertha hurried to it. She checked at the caller ID. “It’s your aunt.”
Doree extended her arm and, in a mature voice, said, “Let me have it.”
Bertha passed the phone to the kid, who seemed enormously grown up at that moment. Like her mother, she met discord head-on. Bertha picked up her partially melted chocolate shake, worked on it, and listened.
“I’m sorry…Yes…The bus…No, through St. Louis…I know, but I was so homesick…I’m sorry…Okay.” She held the phone out. “She wants to talk to you.”
“Hi, Anne.”
Anne said, “Sorry about this little mess. Doree hasn’t been happy since the day she got here. I thought she’d finally come around, but evidently she was making her plans. She’s so much like her mother.”
“She is. Isn’t she?”
“Do you feel it’s safe for her to be home yet?”
“There’s been an attempt on my life.” Saying it out loud made it seem truer; she couldn’t protect herself unless she admitted it, and she doubted that she could protect Doree.
“Oh, dear,” Anne said. “If I get in the car right now, I can be there before midnight.”
“We’re in for the night. Tomorrow is soon enough.”
“What about Erik? Is she going to run off to see him?”
“I think I’ll have her ask him over here. That way I can keep an eye on both of them.”
“I think he dumped her, but she’s naive enough to believe she can change that.”
Bertha signed. “Well then, we’re going to need some ice cream.”
“Were we ever that innocent?”
“I don’t know about you, but when I turned fifty, I started to suspect there was no Santa Claus.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”
“Come to the courthouse. We’ll be there.”
*
At nine that evening Bertha was watching a football game. Doree waited for a commercial, then said, “I want to go over to Erik’s house for a while.”
“Did you talk to him? Did he ask you over?”
When Doree’s eyes teared up, Bertha had her answer. Muting the TV, she patted the place next to her on the sofa. “Let’s talk.”
Doree sat and, looking straight ahead at a beer commercial, said, “You can’t keep me away from him.”
Her slender shoulder looked so vulnerable. Bertha wanted to give her a reassuring pat, but she felt it would be shrugged off, so she said, “I know I can’t keep you away from him. You’re not a little girl anymore. But I do know more about these kinds of things than you do, and if you go over there, you will be humiliated.”
“I think if I could just talk to him…”
“Sweetie. His not answering your calls is telling you all you need to know.”
Doree wiped a stray tear from her chin with the back of her wrist and shook her head. “I’ll walk over there if I have to.”
Bertha sighed, picked up the remote again, and turned off the game. She stood. “Let me get my shoes back on.”
*
The night air was damp and cold. Bertha sat in front of a house, one in a long line of brick houses standing rigid against the starred winter sky. It was a nice neighborhood. The houses were bungalows, set exactly the same distance from the street, the large covered porches lined up so that, standing on one, you could see all the others lined up perfectly to the left and the right.
The Honda hadn’t had time to warm up during the drive to Erik’s house. Bertha shivered and pulled her gloves on as she watched Doree step up to the door. She couldn’t help thinking of Toni and the porch across town where death had waited for her. Thoughts of death—no, murder—made the atmosphere in the little car bone-chilling, but she didn’t want to run the motor. Past romantic experience, such as it was, told her Doree wouldn’t be long. Like ripping a Band-Aid off quickly, the kid would be spared extended pain.
A porch light came on and the door opened. A woman, probably Erik’s mother, cracked the aluminum storm door open and leaned out. Doree looked back at Bertha and her mother’s car, then shook her head. The two talked for a few minutes, then the woman pushed the door open and Doree disappeared inside.
The wait wasn’t long. Probably three or four minutes later Doree appeared on the porch and crossed the yard. She pulled the door open, then slammed it shut, snatched the seat belt, pulled it into place, and said, “Let’s go.”
Bertha started the car and pulled away from the curb, while Doree looked straight ahead in silent despair.
“I think we should stop at Dairy Queen.”
Doree sighed.
“I know I could use some ice cream.”
“It’s fucking freezing,” Doree said.
“I’m sorry, honey, and I get that you’re upset, I really do, but you ca
n’t let this turn you into a raw-boned and resentful hussy. The Dairy Queen will be warm enough inside.” Without further discussion, Bertha turned away from Erik’s house and away from home.
Doree covered her face with her hands and said something.
“What? I didn’t hear you.”
Doree looked up and smiled unpleasantly. “I said, good grief.”
“I’m a lot older than you. I know about these things. Believe me, ice cream is indicated.”
Doree wasn’t crying, but her face was flushed with anger. Bertha counted that as a good sign.
They were the only customers in the Dairy Queen. The waitress made their Blizzards, and the two of them slid into a booth near the front windows. The server returned to straightening the dining room, turning the chairs upside down to make ready to scrub the floor. The air gradually began to smell of bleach. As the teenaged worker popped her gum, she eyed the two of them. The room wasn’t all that warm, so they left their coats on while they spooned in the cold shake. Doree said, “She’s getting ready to close. Maybe we should take these Blizzards home.”
“We have a half hour before she locks the door.”
“She’s swinging that broom around like a witch.” After a beat, Doree said, “I don’t like it here. I want to go home.”
Bertha didn’t have to think long. She figured that for tonight Doree could decide where she’d like to load up on sugar. “All right. Let’s go.”
Doree held both Blizzards while Bertha drove.
The car was silent until Bertha said, “You want to talk about it?”
Doree shook her head no, then said, “Erik is such an infant. He told his mother to say he wasn’t home.”
“But she let you in.”
“I pressed her a little—so she let me in and sent me to the family room. He was down there on his computer.”
Bertha thought of Toni and how she’d be so much better at this. She wanted to say that there would be other boys and it would hurt for a while and then she’d move on. She wanted to tell her that someday she’d meet the right one—someone who’d always answer her calls. But she didn’t.
Widow Page 15
