A Kind of Justice

by Renee James

  “Wilkins.” His tone is curt, to the point. His voice is deep, and carries into my auditory canal like a declaration of doom. I shouldn’t be returning his call. I am completely out of my mind for doing so.

  “This is Bobbi Logan, returning your call.” I say it with all the femininity I can muster, my voice an octave higher, a pronounced sibilant lisp. I know he hates me for what I am and I am being defiant. Plus, of course, if he starts insulting me, I have a good reason to hang up on him, which I should do anyway.

  “Thanks for returning my call, Ms. Logan.”

  His civility is disarming until I realize he’s just doing his good-cop routine. My defense mechanisms fly into the ready.

  “I wanted to ask if we might talk again, now that you’ve had a chance to think about what I said.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” I say. “I have nothing to confess. If you can make a case against me, please do.”

  “Ms. Logan, I am turning over this case to the district attorney shortly. I would really appreciate one more opportunity to speak with you about it. I will be respectful.”

  I politely decline his request.

  “If you change your mind, call me any time, day or night, okay?” he says.

  I agree but assure him no call will be forthcoming. When we hang up, something about the conversation nags at my mind. Partly his tone. He was polite and businesslike, but there was an undercurrent of something . . . sadness, maybe. With a touch of urgency. And the other thing . . . he had led me to believe he was taking the case to the DA days ago. Something is going on . . .

  21

  MONDAY, DECEMBER 15

  I’M WATCHING JALELA do foil highlights for one of her TransRising friends. Jalela has blossomed in her short time with us. She’s observed and assisted on so many color services, she’s already close to a New Talent in her foiling abilities. Plus, she’ll be starting cosmo school next month, and she’s getting a nice head start here.

  Jalela finishes the last foil and sets the timer. Her foils are exquisite. There is no other word for it. They are precise and neat, uniform in appearance, snug to the scalp, perfectly formed. There’s not a drop of bleach anywhere on her apron or the client’s cape. Many of us do excellent highlights without being anywhere near so precise, but the great ones tend to be like this.

  In my peripheral vision I sense movement at the reception counter. I glance over and see Samantha leading someone to my office. It’s Officer Phil. It’s rare that Sam would put anyone in my office without talking to me first. Something is astir. Probably something unpleasant. Good grief, I wonder if something has happened to Betsy or Robbie.

  Samantha walks quickly to me. “Sergeant Pavlik—Phil—says he needs to talk to you for just a moment. I put him in your office,” she says.

  “Is something wrong?” I don’t try to hide the alarm in my voice. “Are Betsy and Robbie okay?”

  “I don’t think it’s anything like that,” says Sam.

  I let my mind briefly flirt with the thought he has come to declare his undying love for me and to beg me to move in with him and wake up in his arms every morning. Then I erase the thought. I’m not in a place in my life where I can be entertaining schoolgirl fantasies. And if that was his message, this isn’t how he would deliver it.

  I ask another stylist to oversee the rest of Jalela’s service and head to my office.

  Phil stands as I enter. I extend a hand for a handshake, preempting any thought of a hug or kiss. It turns out I have some pride.

  We sit.

  “This is unexpected,” I say.

  “I’ve been working the north side today,” says Phil. “And I heard something a little while ago that I wanted to share with you.”

  “You have my undivided attention.” I try to say it in the haughty tone of a wronged woman. I think I succeeded. It feels good.

  “Bobbi, Detective Wilkins is on medical leave. Apparently he is very sick. The person I spoke with thought it might be cancer, but he didn’t know for sure.”

  I blink and sit back in my chair. My mind goes back to our last meeting, the shock I felt at Wilkins’ appearance, gray and emaciated. Yes, cancer would be a good guess. A flurry of new thoughts streak through my consciousness. Might he die before bringing a case against me? I feel remorse that I have many times wished bad things for him and now that he is ill, I realize I didn’t really mean it, or shouldn’t have. An arcane puzzle pops into mind: What if the heavenly baritone of an all-seeing deity poured down from the heavens to say Wilkins would live if I confessed to my crime. Would I give up my life to save his? The heavenly voice would have to be very convincing.

  My mind meanders back to the here and now. “Why are you telling me this?” I ask.

  “Because it might be important information for you,” Phil answers.

  “How?”

  Phil shrugs. “I don’t know, Bobbi. I just thought you should know.”

  He can’t say it, but he’s thinking that this case might go away if Wilkins dies or retires, that I shouldn’t confess to anything or make any deals. He can’t say it for legal reasons, and I don’t want to think it because I don’t want to think of myself as someone who would celebrate someone else’s tragedy. Still, it occurs to me that I might survive all this after all. Brief visions of a happy ending flash through my mind until I regain my senses and stop the thought. This is not a guarantee of a happy ending. Indeed, I’m recalling the sense of urgency I heard in Wilkins’ voice when we spoke on the phone. He’s trying to finish this case before he’s incapacitated. I could be arrested any hour now.

  “Thank you, Phil,” I say.

  Silence engulfs the little room as he searches for something to say. I wait. I have this part of womanhood down pat.

  “Just thought you should know,” he says, finally. He stares into my eyes. He starts to speak once, twice. Stops. He wants to tell me he misses me and I want to kiss him on the lips when he does. But we can’t go there anymore, either of us. He stands. We shake hands across the desk but instead of letting go, he bends at the waist and sweeps my hand to his lips. I can feel their warmth and softness. Resisting the urge to throw myself against him and have him envelope me in a full body hug is almost more than I can bear. But I do.

  I smile at him and lead him to the entry. He turns to face me one last time at the door. To keep from kissing or hugging him, I button his overcoat and run my hands along his arms. I try to say thank you again, but I’m overcome by sadness. My eyes mist, I nod my thanks. He nods back like he’s agreeing, brushes my cheek with a gloved hand, and leaves.

  Sam hands me a tissue as I pass the reception counter. A few tears roll down my cheeks like a gentle dew. Not a sobbing, brokenhearted adolescent, a woman in mourning. Progress, I guess.

  * * *

  FRIDAY, DECEMBER 19

  “You’ve got poor Stephen worried to death.” Her voice is angry. Wilkins couldn’t remember it any other way, though early in their marriage it was always soothing, like a massage of the soul after a long day or night of dealing with society’s vermin.

  “Are you really sick or are you just playing games?”

  Wilkins is tempted to tell her to mind her own business, to ask her if he ever played games about anything, or made excuses, or was ever anything but dead honest. But he doesn’t have the energy for such things anymore, and it doesn’t really matter anyway.

  “I have cancer. I have to have an operation. It might not do the trick.”

  “What kind of cancer?”

  “Oral.”

  “Are they pulling teeth? What kind of surgery are you having?”

  He sighs. “They have to take out part of my jaw and part of my tongue.”

  She is silent. “Will you—?” She can’t finish the question.

  “The surgery is disfiguring”—he says the word sarcastically—“that’s how they describe it.”

  “Disfiguring? What does that mean?”

  “It means I won’t need a mask at Halloween.�
�

  Another long silence. She is shocked, he can picture it.

  “Please don’t share this with Stephen. I’ve told him that the surgery is risky but not anything about what I’ll look like afterward. We can get into that if I survive. If I don’t, I’m leaving instructions to be cremated. Please don’t let anything happen to prevent that.”

  “Okay.” She says it in a quiet voice.

  “I wrote a lot of things down for him,” says Wilkins. “He’ll share it with you. I’m leaving what I have to you. I gave him a key to my apartment in case I don’t make it and I told him he can have anything he wants in there. I’m sending a few personal things to Anita at school with a letter, and I’m sending a box of things to Stephen.”

  “No guns!”

  “No. No guns. My dad’s pocket watch, some pictures. Some awards I won. My scrapbook. Things like that. I’m sending Anita my mother’s wedding band and some jewelry. I have a few more days to put everything together. It will all be in order in my apartment. Stephen has a key. I suggested he take you with him when he comes.”

  Silence. “Allan, I don’t know what to say.”

  “There’s nothing to say. I just have to play out the string.”

  “Can I do anything? Can we do anything? Your kids love you, you know. I love you, too. It’s just—” She can’t complete the sentence.

  “I know,” says Wilkins. “Thanks for the thought. We’ll see what happens after surgery.”

  After he hangs up, Wilkins leans back in the chair and raises both hands to cover his face. He sees himself after the surgery, a face like a horror monster, his mouth in a permanent “O” like some fiendish ghoul, his tongue no longer able to make speech sounds, using a tube to eat. Too weak to climb stairs. What the fuck is he going to do with himself then? What kind of life is that?

  * * *

  FRIDAY, DECEMBER 19

  This is our holiday party night at the salon. The party starts when we close at six, but the festive atmosphere builds all afternoon. Each of us brings a dish, and we exchange small gifts. We could go out to a restaurant or have a meal catered in, but for as long as I’ve been here, the salon culture was to invest a little of ourselves in the celebration.

  After we eat and chat, I ask for the group’s attention. In years past, Roger delivered a brief benediction, thanking God and karma for the bountiful year that was and hoping the new year will be good, too. The staff gathers expectantly. A new voice for an old script. They clap and smile as I stand before them.

  “In the great tradition of the finest boss I’ve ever had—that being Roger, but Samantha is catching up”—general laughter—“I want to thank all the fates and deities and friendly prayers that got us through the roughest year we’ve ever had at Salon L’Elégance,” I start. More applause. “And to all of you who prayed, and to all of our collective gods, please do what you can for us next year.” More applause and smiles.

  “I won’t drag this out, but I have a few announcements . . .” Several people emit mock groans. I play along, promising to be brief if they will just give a moment more of their valuable time.

  “First, let me say that because of everyone’s hard work promoting our business at all hours of the day and night, I am pleased to tell you that Salon L’Elégance has returned to profitability!”

  People clap and cheer. We’re all invested in this place.

  Barbara comes before the group, standing beside me, and raises her wine glass. “Let’s drink to Bobbi and Salon L’Elégance!” A boisterous salute ensues. I blush crimson, to the delight of my colleagues.

  “It is I who should salute you,” I say when the noise dies down. “I don’t know of any salon where the staff would do the things you have done to keep the business afloat. And I can tell you for sure that we wouldn’t be here if we hadn’t done what we did.” I raise my glass and we toast again.

  “One final thing,” I say. “The senior management of Salon L’Elégance has experienced a moment of fiscal insanity and elected to thank each of you for your love and sacrifice with a small holiday gift. This is not something we can do annually, as you know, but this is a special year, and you are special people and we need a special moment together.”

  As I speak, Sam distributes envelopes to each person. Each envelope contains a check for $100. Not the kind of money investment bankers throw around, but a tiny miracle in our business where the house profit margins are modest and bonuses are rare because ours is a business that operates on commissions and tips.

  Around the room, the reaction is electric as people open their envelopes. In my corporate days I saw white-collar types swear angrily at receiving “only” a $5,000 holiday bonus. My colleagues aren’t like that. People smile, some clap, one stylist holds her check to her chest and closes her eyes. I think perhaps her child will get a Christmas gift that wasn’t within reach a moment ago. That thought makes me giddy. Jalela is holding check and envelope to her face and beaming with happiness. She comes to me, arms outstretched, and embraces me.

  “You’re the best,” she says. “I love you!”

  “I love you back,” I answer. We hug and rock.

  After many minutes of bedlam and celebration, Samantha calls the group to order one more time. “Bobbi,” she says. “On behalf of the Salon L’Elégance staff, I have an honor to bestow on you. Please come forward.”

  I turn crimson again, which pleases everyone.

  “On behalf of the greatest staff of hair professionals in all the world, and the most dedicated Bobbi Logan groupies anywhere, it is my pleasure to present to you the first ever Mistress of the Lethal Curling Iron Award.” As she says it she pulls a carved-wood likeness of a curling iron, true to life in every detail except for the arrowhead on the end. My name is inscribed on the handle, along with the words, “Supreme Order of the Lethal Curling Iron.” I can barely read the inscription for laughing so hard.

  A tiny voice deep inside me wonders if I could ever find this kind of joy in prison. I answer that myself. I’m lucky to have found it here.

  * * *

  SATURDAY, DECEMBER 20

  Betsy and I face each other in our living room. Robbie is playing at her friend’s house next door. We have an hour to ourselves. Betsy is still pressing for full disclosure on my involvement in the Strand murder, but she takes it gracefully when I again decline.

  I switch to the more important point.

  “If they arrest me, Cecelia will handle things here. You and Robbie will have this place to live in as long as you want, and you’ll get living expenses for at least a year.”

  Betsy makes a face. “I don’t want your money.”

  “I know you don’t,” I say. “I want you to have it. I want you to have time to make some choices. Good choices, not panicky ones.”

  “You aren’t my husband.” Her face is puckering as she says it.

  “This isn’t marriage. It’s love, and you’d do it for me.”

  Betsy stands, grasps my hands, and makes me stand. She wraps her arms around me in a soft, melancholy hug. “You are such a good person, Bobbi,” she murmurs. “It breaks my heart you went through so much alone. Don’t do that ever again.” I can feel her tears on my skin.

  * * *

  SUNDAY, DECEMBER 21

  Betsy pretends to act surprised that Phil happens to be shopping for toddler girl clothes at Macy’s at the very moment we are in the same department picking out gifts for Robbie.

  She walks right up to him and says, “You’re busted, mister. Betraying the ghost of Marshall Field!”

  “What about you?” he says.

  “I was forced to come here by you-know-who.” She points at me.

  “Hi, Bobbi,” he says. I return the greeting. We stand in awkward silence for a moment.

  “Do you have a niece or daughter I don’t know about?” I ask, finally, nodding to our surroundings.

  “No. I, uh . . .” It’s obvious he’s trying to make something up. He blushes. “Okay, Betsy said you’d be
here about now, and I was hoping to talk to you.”

  “You could have called me.”

  “I tried that.”

  Betsy is smiling sheepishly at me and nodding. She wants me to chat with him. We seem to have crossed some kind of threshold. “Why don’t you two go have a coffee or something? I’ll catch up to you in a little while,” she says.

  I make a face at her, then take Phil’s hand and tug him in the direction of the Walnut Room, one of the last vestiges of the old Marshall Field’s store. Field’s was a Chicago institution until the conglomerate that owns Macy’s bought it and converted the Field’s stores, even the sacred one on State Street, into Macy’s stores. The city is still outraged. Bad enough to lose our own landmark to a lesser brand, but worse that Macy’s is as New York as Field’s was Chicago. There are still protests every year under the old Field’s clock tower. Personally, I would rather have Field’s still there, but I can’t see taking sides in the silly games of giant corporations.

  Macy’s has continued the Walnut Room Christmas tradition. It is more Christmasy than Santa’s spread at the North Pole and more festive than all the suburban lights rolled into one display. It’s even moving for an atheist. Coffee and cinnamon and lovely aromas I can’t identify fill the air. It’s like a great feast just breathing here, and the decorations and music massage your senses like a soft guitar. I try to stay mad at Phil, but as we sit over our hot drinks, old feelings come back. I gaze at him and fantasize about riding in one of the horse-drawn carriages outside, cuddling against him under a warm blanket, vapors of breath streaming into the frigid air as we glide through the magnificent canyons of downtown Chicago.

  “How have you been?” he asks.

  “Busy. Happy. Getting along. You?”

  “I’m okay.” He bobs his head up and down like there’s more he has to say, but he doesn’t say anything. I choke back the temptation to fill the silence with small talk. This isn’t my meeting.

  I’m getting better at this.

  “Bobbi,” he says, looking at me now, “I miss you.” He stares at me. I have absolutely no idea how to respond.