That's when a change swept over Wattle, kind of like he turned to iron on the spot. His three chins locked into place, and what he said next sounded cold as a wind blowing all the way from a dark tomorrow.
"I hunted up that knife that Sheriff Huck was hiding under his bed and told myself that if I couldn't have Tully Britches all to myself, then nobody else could either. That's how love works, ain't it?"
* * * *
The last thing that Wattle McFee said, just before they let him swing, stuck with me for weeks onto months and years. In a clear, calm voice, he looked out over the crowd gathered before him and called out, “I ain't alone up here."
Then the trap door dropped away and the timbers sounded ready to crack under his weight—though they didn't—and Wattle paid for breaking the Ten Commandments.
The sheriff wouldn't talk to me for a spell, being outmaneuvered always gave him the sulks, but he perked up some when I pointed out that Judge Hooker was inviting ex-Deputy Tom to stick around St. Louis for a time to atone for lying while under oath. With no one else running against him in the upcoming election, the sheriff liked his odds.
As for the Britches boys, they buried their brother in the family plot back in Split Rock. Woe to the man who made the mistake of speaking out against the memory of Tully Britches. He was liable to find an avalanche of redheads landing on him.
Not too long after winning that fall's election, Sheriff Huck started talking up the next Olympics. He still believed we could be a force in the tug-of-war competition. As for the 1904 Olympics, a team from Milwaukee took home the cup.
Copyright © 2006 Joe Helgerson
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PROUD MARY by Harriet Rzetelny
I noticed the van sitting in a vacant lot at the edge of the river while I was on my way to work Monday morning. I am a social worker at a home care agency in Brooklyn. Our once-and-still-run-down neighborhood is in the slow process of gentrifying, and big things are planned for the riverfront, but they haven't arrived yet and the riverfront is still full of abandoned piers and empty spaces.
It was a large van, actually more like a minibus, and it rose up out of the surrounding litter like a mirage looming up out of the barren desert. Writhing across its side was a bright green dragon with red and yellow flames shooting out of its mouth. In the center of the dragon's belly, painted in somber black, were the words, Death is a heartache no one can heal. And under that, in smaller letters: Pistol Packin’ Mama Productions.
Death is a heartache no one can heal. All morning, between filling out Medicaid applications and other forms for our elderly, disabled clients and refereeing fights with their home attendants, I thought about those words. I certainly know about death first hand: I work with people near the end of their lives, and death is always in the room, sitting between us like an uninvited guest.
Sometime during the late morning I went into the cluttered cubicle laughingly called The Staff Room, kicking away boxes of forms and memos so I could get to the coffee machine. Manny, our building porter, who has the nose of a bloodhound when it comes to neighborhood gossip, was sitting at the cracked Formica table directly under a sign that said, “This Is A Smoke-Free Workplace,” inhaling one of his little brown cigarillos.
"Hola, Manny,” I said, pouring myself a cup of the way-too-old coffee. Of course there was no milk in the tiny fridge that sat under the coffee machine. Manny reached into his lunch cooler, pulled out an opened pint container of milk, and handed it to me.
"Only for you, Miss Molly, would I share this leche, purchased with my own hard-earned money.” Manny was a Latino who could be anywhere from fifty to seventy, with the barrel chest of the chronic asthmatic.
I grinned at him. “Hey, Manny, what do you know about the van that suddenly appeared over by the river?"
"The one with the dragon?"
I nodded.
He took another pull at his cigarillo and said, “You know old Mrs. Bauer?"
I nodded again. Mrs. Bauer was one of our clients. She lived with her daughter, Madeline, and Madeline's daughter, Penny. Mrs. Bauer received four hours of home care a day and was considered one of our “difficult” clients, which meant that I was fairly well acquainted with her and Madeline.
"Her older granddaughter is some kind of punk rocker. That's her van. She came East for the funeral of her father. You know, the one who got killed during that bar robbery last week."
"Paul Ryan?"
Manny nodded.
"I didn't know he was Mrs. Bauer's son-in-law.” Madeline used the name Bauer, but Penny's last name was Ryan. It was a common enough name, though, and there was no reason for me to put the two together.
"The things you don't know,” he shook his head in mock sadness. “And you call yourself a social worker?” When I made a face at him, he went on, “They still haven't caught the guy who done it, have they?"
He was asking this because he knew I had an on-again off-again relationship with Steve Carmaggio, a detective from our local precinct. Since I knew Manny's discretion had as many holes as a colander, I was glad that I could honestly shake my head and say “I don't know any more than you do."
My curiosity piqued, I went back to my cubicle and telephoned the Bauer house. Madeline answered the phone. She had been downsized from her last job and was currently out of work.
"I'm so sorry to hear about...” I was starting to say when she cut me off. “Oh, Molly, I'm really glad you called.” Her voice sounded as tightly strung as a piano wire. “Can you come over? I think I'm going to be arrested."
"Arrested?” I could hardly believe my ears. “You need a lawyer, not a social worker."
"I have a lawyer. But if they put me in jail, I don't know what I'm going to do about my mother and daughter. Please, just come."
The Bauers lived on the third floor of a four story walkup, a few blocks from the expressway. As I said, our Brooklyn neighborhood is in the slow process of gentrifying. Many of the run-down two and three story buildings, which had been built slapdash following the post-war industrial boom and were never much to begin with, had now been spruced up with window boxes and fresh coats of paint. They reminded me of aging women who smear on the powder and lipstick—old hens dressed as chickens, my grandmother used to call them.
No one had tried to spruce up the Bauers’ block yet, and the Bauers’ building looked like the old hen that it was. The hallway inside was dark and smelled of ancient mouse droppings.
The current home care worker, Divinia Perez, was just leaving as I was coming in. She had the round, warm, toffy-colored face of her Central American ancestors. Usually it relaxed into a smile when she saw me, but today she merely shook her head and started down the stairs.
I walked through the dark, crowded apartment to the kitchen, where Madeline and her mother were sitting at a faded gray table with chrome legs. They were drinking tea. Madeline's mother, Louise, was propped in a wheelchair. One side of her face sagged like a fallen cake. One hand lay curled on her lap in its post-stroke rigidity, and she held her teacup with the other.
She peered at me out of hard, bitter eyes. “Oh, it's you, from the agency,” she said in her slurred voice. “That woman is useless. She won't even wash the windows when I tell her to."
"Mama, you remember the nurse told us Divinia was here just to take care of you and do some light housekeeping.” Madeline's voice had a note of pleading. Her mother gave her a savage look; in the face of it, Madeline seemed to shrink and grow smaller. I liked Madeline, but she was one of those victim women who simply collapse in the presence of a stronger personality. With Louise Bauer as a mother, she'd never had a chance.
"When I was young, we really had to work,” Louise Bauer declared. “Not like it is today. Now they expect to get paid to do nothing. I brought up my daughter alone. I worked all day in a factory. If the boss told me to wash the windows, I would have washed the windows if I wanted to keep my job."
Madeline rolled her eyes. They were d
eeply set and still hauntingly lovely. Madeline bore the remains of what once must have been exquisite beauty like some half-forgotten memory. But her whole body looked worn out, as if the downward forces in her life were stronger than any energy she could put forth to counter them.
Getting up, she put the dishes into the sink. “It's time for your programs,” she said. Mrs. Bauer released the catch with her good hand and wheeled herself out of the room, with Madeline trailing along behind. I heard a TV set go on and then the sounds of a door opening and closing. In a few minutes Madeline was back with her daughter Penny.
The child was so skinny it was painful to look at her. She had her mother's deep-set eyes, but there was no beauty in them. They were sunken and corpselike, and they kept darting back to her mother, as if she were continually checking her for signs of impending disaster.
"Why don't you watch some TV with Grandma, and I'll bring you in some cookies and milk,” Madeline said.
"No, thank you,” she answered in the piping voice of a very young bird. “I'm not hungry."
"You know what the doctor told you.” Two little lines appeared in the skin between Madeline's eyes. “If you don't eat, he's going to have to put you back in the hospital."
"I ate something before I left school,” Penny said quickly, but it was obvious that she was lying.
Madeline ran her fingers through her hair. “She's fifteen years old,” she said to me. I still found that hard to believe; she looked ten. “I can't be hanging on her every minute trying to get her to eat."
"Don't worry, Mom. I'll eat something later.” Penny shot her mother another anxious look and scurried out of the room.
Madeline closed the kitchen door and then sank into a chair. “Dysfunctional Family 101,” she said. A corner of her mouth twitched. “We're perfect candidates for Dr. Phil.” Comments like that were one of the reasons why I liked her.
"Madeline, what's going on?"
"The police think the robbery at the bar was just a cover-up for Paul's murder."
"Who would have wanted to murder Paul?” Paul Ryan had owned a bar called The Crawfish that was a neighborhood hangout. Although I didn't know him well, having only been into The Crawfish a few times, I knew he had a reputation as a womanizer. He had never put the make on me, however; he liked them way younger and a lot hotter than my thirty-something self.
Madeline shrugged. “Apparently me, according to the police."
"Why do they think you did it?"
"Who knows? He stopped support payments for Penny?” It was a question, not a statement, as if the machinations of the police mentality were beyond her understanding.
I shook my head. “The police need more than that; they need evidence that puts you on the scene with the weapon in your hand, so to speak."
"Well, I was there, so maybe that's what they've got."
"You were there?"
Her eyes flashed again briefly. “He was such a bastard, Molly. He said he wouldn't give me my money unless I begged him for it. I didn't want to go, but Mama said she'd go if I didn't. So I went. But I didn't kill him.” She lifted her shoulders and let them drop. “If they do arrest me though, I'll need twenty-four-hour service to take care of my mother. She needs help getting out of bed during the night to go to the bathroom. And Penny..."
The door was flung open and a young, impossibly blond woman burst into the room. She looked to be in her early twenties, and was garishly made up with bright, neon purple lipstick and green eye shadow. Her red sequined top was cut so low, I could see the tiny gun tattooed between her breasts. If this wasn't Pistol Packin’ Mama, I would eat that fire-breathing dragon.
"This is my older daughter, Roxanne..."
"Roxy,” the girl corrected her. “Roxanne is so, like, medieval."
"Roxy and her, uh, boyfriend, Fredo. They came in from Seattle for the funeral."
Behind her, almost obscured by her luster, was a good-looking young Latino, dressed entirely in black leather with an assortment of chains dangling from his belt. I nodded at him, and he scowled back at me.
Roxy took me in from the top of my short brown hair, through my dressed-down sweater and khaki pants, right to the bottom of the low-heeled walking shoes I wear to work. Next to her I felt as drab and colorless as the concrete sidewalks and decaying buildings I could see from the kitchen window. “She doesn't look like the fuzz."
"My name is Molly Lewin,” I said primly. “I'm a social worker with your grandmother's home care agency."
"A social worker, huh,” Fredo growled, as if he smelled something bad in the room. “Come to put old gramma away in a nursing home?"
"Shut up, Fredo,” Roxy commanded.
"She's here to get some additional help for my mother and Penny if I am arrested."
Roxy turned and put her hands on her mother's shoulders. “That's ridiculous, Mom. They can't possibly arrest you."
Madeline shrugged, as if it was out of her hands. “My lawyer says they can.” She looked at me. “What can you do, Molly?"
"It will take a few days to get your mother certified for additional hours.” Mrs. Bauer was on Medicaid, which meant nothing was easy. “And I can't officially include Penny in the request. We can only provide care for your mother."
"Penny can come stay with me for a while,” Roxy declared. “I'm her sister."
"I don't know...” Madeline glanced hesitantly at Fredo.
"Don't worry about him.” Roxy shrugged off her mother's concern, as if Fredo and his dangling chains were no more dangerous than a cockroach.
"I'd better get back to the office and get the paperwork started,” I said, getting up. “Just in case.” I put on my jacket and added, “Let me know what happens."
No one answered me. Roxy had opened the refrigerator door and was peering inside. Fredo, who seemed to have only one expression, was scowling at her back. And Madeline was staring down at her hands as if they were Exhibit One in her own murder trial.
I got back to the office and called Steve.
"Carmaggio,” he said when he picked up the phone. Brusque, impersonal—his cop's voice.
"Lewin,” I said in the same way.
"Who? Oh, Molly.” His voice got softer, warmer as he said my name. When I asked him to meet me after work at Vinny's, a local joint, he added, “Just what I was hoping you'd say."
I started on the paperwork that would get Mrs. Bauer certified for additional hours, if necessary, which took a good chunk of the rest of the afternoon. Since it was early December, it was almost dark by the time I left the office at five, and the street lamps were on. Posted on several of them was an advertisement for Pistol Packin’ Mama, who was appearing later that night at a local club called The Crooked Peg. A smudgy photocopy of Roxy, one hip thrust out aggressively, challenged me to come by and see her.
It had been overcast all day, and even the Christmas lights blinking in the store windows couldn't cut through the murky gloom. The inside of Vinny's was almost as dim as the street outside and smelled of garlic and old beer. Steve was sitting at the bar, his big shoulders and sandy-haired head were hunched over a half-empty mug. He turned toward me as I slid onto the stool next to him and gave me a grin, and my heart simply melted away into my chest; it was just like coming home to a glowing fire after a long, cold day. It was moments like this that sustained me during the bad times, when he would disappear into his beer, or his work, or his head, or wherever.
He leaned over and kissed me lightly on the lips. Then he signaled Sal, the bartender, for a white wine—my drink of choice. Steve picked it up when it came, and we made our way to a table in the back. At that early time, we were the only people in the dining room.
"Steve,” I said, after Sal had brought over the menus. “I have a client, Madeline Bauer, who thinks she's going to be arrested in the Paul Ryan murder. Is she? Because if so, I'm gonna have to get additional home care hours for her mother."
"What do you know about it?"
"Just like a cop,” I sai
d in a teasing voice. “Never give an answer when you can ask a question instead."
"You gonna tell me what you know about it, or what?” Actually, his assumption that I knew something worth telling was a high compliment. He had learned that in my capacity as a social worker, people often told me things that they wouldn't necessarily tell the cops, and I'd been able to give him some valuable help with some of his past cases.
"I don't really know anything more than you do,” I answered. “I just spoke to Madeline briefly this morning. She's got her hands full. The mother from hell, one anorexic daughter, another daughter who calls herself Pistol Packin’ Mama and has a gun tattooed between her breasts."
"You know anything about Madeline's recent relationship with the D.O.A.?"
"I didn't even know they had been married. She's never talked about him."
His lips tightened for a minute. Then he said, “The D.A. thinks there's enough for an indictment."
"And you don't?"
He shrugged. “It's not up to me."
Sal came over to take our order—a veal Parmesan hero with extra cheese for Steve and a spinach salad for me. I sat quietly as Steve mulled something over. Finally he said, “The loo tells me I gotta move on from this.” By loo I knew he meant Lieutenant Cavanaugh, his commanding officer. “We've got the serial killer, the Vasquez triple homicide, and two detectives out on sick leave. But I been doing this a long time, and something doesn't feel right to me here."
I waited as he chewed on it some more. “We've got evidence that places the ex-wife at the scene, we've got a motive—the D.O.A. was way behind in his child support, and several witnesses tell us she was pretty angry at him. She could'a come there wanting her money, things get a little out of hand, and she ends up whacking him over the head with the baseball bat he keeps behind the bar—no fingerprints, so it could be her as well as anyone. It's a good case from the D.A.'s point of view."
"But you don't like it?"
He shook his head. “Unfortunately, no one looks any better, so we gotta go with what we have.” He leaned in closer, lowered his voice, and said, “Can you help me out on this, Molly? Nose around a little, see what you can find out. I'd hate to see her go down for this if she didn't do it."
AHMM, November 2006 Page 12
