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Chapter Two

  Bertha had first met Toni Matulis when she was fresh out of detox, trying to get a private law practice started, still working on and off for the county, still taking work from the battered-woman’s shelter, for which she was paid five or ten dollars a month. She hadn’t been ready for a new relationship, but one came to her anyway. Toni, a slender redhead with wide hips, had answered a police call at Bertha’s office.

  In the beginning, Bertha saw Toni as a rigid, uptight straight woman who enjoyed the power her uniform afforded. She was efficient as a police officer, impressive really, but Bertha’d been focused on her own problems when one morning Toni, who was supposed to be waiting in the kitchen for Bertha to get dressed, blindsided Bertha by opening the shower curtain and stepping in. Since that day, Bertha saw the image of Toni looking up at her as the shower beat down on both of them, then Toni pulling her into a wet kiss. The image was ingrained in her memory. Putting her arms around the wet policewoman sent a thrill through her, and she was amazed at the immediate and intense feelings she had for Toni, who was better than Bertha in so many ways.

  Toni was self-assured, had a good heart, and was patient and strong. Bertha soon learned that even though Toni was the smaller of the two of them, she had a deep well of courage and fearlessness that she drew on. She backed Bertha up on all things—okay, most things. They didn’t always see things the same, especially parenting. Bertha wanted to spoil the kid, so Toni was often the bad guy. But by the time Doree was thirteen, Bertha saw the necessity of a firm hand. Last July, they’d been together exclusively for twelve years.

  Now Toni, whose presence was connected to Bertha’s life in uncounted ways, was dead. She’d always held her cards close to her chest and played them with skill, so what the hell went wrong? If only Bertha’d had some warning, she would have said and done a thousand things differently. The suddenness left Bertha spiraling. She wasn’t ready to be a widow. Toni had been ripped away from her, and all she could think about was that damn shower. Her pain was all-consuming; she walked through the funeral and the days that followed numb. She tried, but she couldn’t stop saying “We.” As family and friends came to help her, Bertha only wanted to curl up under the blankets.

  *

  Bertha woke before sunrise and felt a warm body curled up beside her. For an instant she forgot that it wasn’t Toni, but her Aunt Lucy’s snoring registered. Once again the reality knocked the wind out of her. Once again she wanted to go back before the shooting and put Toni on a different path. The room was still in shadows. A night table stood next to the bed. She knew the surface by heart: alarm clock, lamp, phone, and her blood-pressure pills. A matching bureau and an antique Singer sewing machine table, which had belonged to Grandma, each supported a vase of dying flowers.

  To steady herself, she organized a mental list of all the things that’d happened since Toni was killed: Bertha’s Aunt Lucy and Doree’s Aunt Anne, who was a sort of sister-in-law to Bertha, had descended upon them, and next was the funeral with full honors and a house full of people. Now only the two aunts remained.

  Mornings were the hardest. During the day an unrelenting internal voice scolded her for overreacting to Toni’s death. In spite of what Aunt Lucy and others said, Bertha sometimes asked herself: How big was a grief that was too big? Why was everything so damn hard? She no longer felt like herself. She’d turned into someone she didn’t recognize. Life went on for others, but Bertha seemed stuck.

  When Aunt Lucy had come from Chicago to help, she couldn’t sleep in the spare room because Doree’s Aunt Anne, Toni’s only sister, who worked in a lab and had the personality of a test tube, had come from Indiana and was sleeping there. So Aunt Lucy stayed in Bertha’s room and slept in Toni’s spot. Sometimes she was glad her aunt was there, but at other times—when she woke and found a warm body next to her, then remembered all over again that Toni was gone—she wanted to die too. Which was worse, she wondered, taking life from someone who didn’t want to die or taking death from someone who did want to die?

  Progressively the four women, counting Doree, settled into a patched-up kind of routine. The two aunts cooked and put nutritious food on the table. They ate their way through the funeral food while trying to figure out a life without Toni.

  Doree got her assignments from school and worked a couple of hours in the afternoon on them. After two weeks she went back to school without objection. Bertha read through the New Yorkers that lay all over the house, the magazines Bertha and Toni had always meant to keep up with but never could.

  Bertha replayed what little she knew about the killing over and over in her head. Each time she checked, the police had nothing. Finding the killers wouldn’t bring Toni back. It wouldn’t lessen the pain. Not knowing was like listening to a ticking clock with no hands. Fred Cook had gone on leave until he participated in the mandated counseling that followed each shooting. Bertha couldn’t, and probably shouldn’t, reach him at home. Shortly after the first week, she remembered Scottie, a diesel dyke who used to hang out at the Crones Nest. As a paramedic, she might have been working the night they transported Toni.

  Bertha checked the phone book and couldn’t find her. She wasn’t sure of her real first name, plus most people didn’t have landlines anymore. If you had a number, it was because it was given to you. Bertha flipped to the Yellow Pages and found the name of the Midwest Ambulance Service. When she called, Scottie was out on a run. Without a lot of hope, Bertha left a message.

  Scottie returned the call during dinner. Bertha grabbed a piece of freshly buttered garlic bread and headed into her room with her cell.

  Scottie started. “I am so sorry about your loss. Toni was a loss to all of us.”

  “Thanks, Scottie.” Then moving on quickly before she lost her nerve, Bertha said, “I don’t know you very well, but I hope it’s all right that I called.”

  “Of course it is,” Scottie said. “What can I do to help?”

  “Were you there that night?”

  Sounding cautious, Scottie said, “I was.”

  Bertha pressed on. “I have some questions.”

  “You know I’m not supposed to talk about it?”

  “I understand that.”

  “Honey,” Scottie said, “are you sure you want to know?”

  Bertha sighed. “I have to. It’s only a few questions.”

  “Geez. I’m at work right now. I can’t talk from here.”

  “When does your shift end?”

  “Seven, seven thirty, give or take.”

  “Can we meet after you get off work?”

  “Sure. Where?”

  Bertha thought about it. Where did people who went out in the evenings go? She’d forgotten. “I don’t know. Have you had dinner?”

  “No. I usually eat pretty late. Wanna meet for pizza?”

  “That sounds good,” Bertha said, shoving the last of the garlic bread in her mouth and cursing herself for not inviting her out for coffee. Dinner took too long. Besides Toni, what did they have to talk about?

  “How about that little place across from the Crones Nest?”

  Was that place still there? Bertha was amazed that she’d forgotten so much of her single routines. “That sounds great. Eight o’clock, then?”

  “I’ll see you there.”

  *

  Rita’s Pizzeria was a little hole in the wall. A porthole in the door, the only window in the place, reduced the view of the world outside. Inside, the furniture was old and the walls were covered with autographed pictures of movie stars. Scottie sat in a booth when Bertha got there. Her short-cropped gray hair was styled a little like Fonzie, from Happy Days reruns. It had been that style since the days when it was dark brown. Bertha imagined her standing before the mirror combing it back.

  “What are you drinking?” Scottie asked, as Bertha slid into the booth across from her. “They have a cheap pitcher of beer.”

  Bertha shook her head. “I quit. Remember?”

  Scottie’s metallic-blue eyes w
idened. “All this time?”

  Bertha nodded and asked if Scottie would like to split a cheese pizza.

  “Sounds good. I think I’ll have that pitcher for myself. Want me to order?”

  Rita’s had a counter because the waitress worked only on Saturday nights. When Scottie stood to go to the counter, Bertha said, “I’ll have a large diet drink.”

  “Got it.”

  When the order was up, Bertha took her wallet to the counter and paid the old woman. She thought Scottie might object, but she didn’t.

  Half a pitcher of beer later, Bertha was still listening to Scottie talk about the old bunch. This one split with that one, and they had an expensive battle over custody rights of the dog. A couple they used to know sort of disappeared for several years.

  Bertha said, “Toni and I did that. Home was a good place to be. The bar scene didn’t fit in our lives anymore. We had our careers and a kid to rise.”

  “You’re the lucky one.” Scottie frowned. “I don’t think, in my whole life, I managed to keep a woman over two years. That’s even below average.”

  “Average?”

  “It’s three years. Least that’s what a woman on the way out the door told me.”

  They ate quietly for a while. At length Bertha said, “What can you tell me about the night Toni died?”

  Scottie nodded and signaled the guy at the counter for another pitcher, then said, “Police shootings are rare. It’s burned into my mind. Toni and her partner were both down when we got there. Fred Cook, wasn’t it?”

  Bertha nodded.

  “Thought so. Well, he didn’t have a serious wound. A couple of uniforms took him to the hospital so the paramedics could focus on Toni.”

  “What about the killers?”

  Scottie shook her head and slid the fresh pitcher to the center of the table. “We looked at Toni first. I heard from the dispatcher, who’s married to a uniform, that the next morning they found a trail of blood that led to the alley. Must have had a car waiting because they lost the trail there. ”

  “So at least one other guy was hit?”

  Scottie nodded. As she poured the beer, the head filled more than half of the mug and then ran over onto the table. Scottie threw some napkins on the mess.

  Bertha asked, “Would it be possible to find out if anyone showed up in the ER with a gunshot wound?”

  “The police would have checked that. I can ask the dispatcher.”

  “Would you?”

  “Sure.”

  The smell of the alcohol was wearing on Bertha. Add to that the image of Toni lying in the alley, and her voice shook when she said, “About Toni. Go on.”

  “Well, we had to pull the bus around and use the headlights to see what we were doing. We didn’t want to move her until we were sure of her injuries.”

  Bertha said, “Fred Cook said her heart had stopped.”

  “Now why’d he go and tell you a thing like that?”

  “Did her heart stop?” The spilled beer and pizza grease assaulted Bertha.

  Scottie seemed to lift her beer mug in slow motion. Then she said, “It wasn’t important. We got her going and stabilized her enough to transport. She had an IV started, and a doctor from the hospital monitored her every minute. We can transmit vitals these days. So a doctor was with her from the beginning. She had the best care we could give her.”

  Bertha’d wanted to ask about Toni’s injuries, but she’d unexpectedly lost the desire to know.

  Scottie asked, “Have you talked to the police?”

  Bertha shook her head no. She put a clean napkin to her lips, sure that the cheese pizza was coming back up. But it just sat there, a knot in her throat.

  Scottie reached across the table and touched her arm. “You okay?”

  “Sure. It’s getting late. I need to be going.”

  “Aw, I was hoping you’d go across the street with me for a little while. See some of the old gang.”

  Bertha could think of nothing to say. Scottie’s life seemed sad. It was Thursday night and she’d finished her second pitcher of beer. There wouldn’t be many folks in the bar. Most of the kids Bertha knew were home with their families. That was it. Bertha said, “I have a sixteen-year-old to get home to.”

  “Really?”

  “Toni’s daughter.”

  “She’ll stay with you?”

  “Of course she will. Look, can I give you a ride home?”

  Scottie slid out of the booth. “Billie’ll call me a cab pretty soon.”

  “My God. Is she still tending bar?”

  Scottie nodded. “She owns the place now.”

  Bertha stood and walked Scottie to the door of the restaurant, then crossed the street with her. Scottie asked her once again if she’d come inside, and Bertha said, “No thanks. I need to get home.”

  Scottie embraced her.

  *

  Bertha received the first call late on the fifteenth of October. Doree, who’d been watching TV in the family room, tapped on Bertha’s bedroom door.

  “Bertha.” She’d stopped calling Bertha by Mom and stopped calling Aunt Lucy by Aunt Lucy. Now Aunt Lucy was Mrs. Johnson. “Phone for you.”

  “Who is it?” Bertha asked, blinking sleepily.

  “He didn’t say.”

  Bertha checked the nightstand clock and reached for the phone. Her first thought was a cop needing a warrant signed. That had happened all the time when Toni was there. “’Lo?”

  “Just so you know,” came a man’s gravelly whisper, “I got to Toni and I’m coming after you.”

  Bertha sat up and, from the edge of the bed, squinted at the caller ID, but the phone number wasn’t displayed. “Who is this?”

  “I know where you are, and I know where that pretty little daughter hangs out. Maybe she’ll be first.”

  “Listen, you cocksucker. Leave my daughter alone!”

  He laughed. “Your little girl is the cocksucker.” Then he hung up.

  A bedside lamp came on. Aunt Lucy propped herself on one elbow. “Who was that?”

  “No one.” Then Bertha amended it. “I don’t know.”

  “Are you all right?”

  Not answering, Bertha stood and crossed to the door.

  “Can I help?”

  Bertha stopped and looked in Aunt Lucy’s direction. The old woman was sitting on the edge of the bed, her foot searching for a house slipper. Her wig was on the bureau, and her short, wiry gray hair stood on end. “Will you check the locks and make sure the alarm system is set?”

  “Of course.”

  Bertha started to go and then turned back. “You’re going to sleep in Doree’s room tonight. I want her in here.”

  “Honey, what’s going on?”

  “I’m not sure.” Bertha went through the door and headed for the family room, downstairs.

  Doree sat in front of the TV, which was the only light in the room. Bertha stood behind her for a moment. Finally the girl turned and, clearly annoyed, said, “What?”

  Bertha didn’t want to scare Doree, and she didn’t want to call the police. Laws didn’t protect the innocent and laws weren’t enough for the guilty. She was on her own until this guy did something, because threats weren’t enough for the police. She spoke and realized she should have cleared her throat first. “That call was some nut with a threat. It’s probably nothing, but we’re going to make sure we’re locked up and the security alarm is set.”

  Doree’s dark, straightened hair hung like a curtain around her face. She shrugged. “Okay.”

  “Aunt Lucy is going to sleep in your room and you’ll sleep with me.”

  She gave Bertha a look as hard as marbles. “No way.”

  “We are not going to argue.”

  Doree’s eyes grew smaller and darker with fury. “I don’t want anybody in my room.”

  “Sorry,” Bertha said. “The two of us were threatened, and I want you where I can see you.”

  “Me? Who would threaten me?”

  “He did
n’t leave a name. Come on now. Turn off the TV and get your nightshirt.”

  Doree’s face twisted with rage. “I hate you.”

  “Doesn’t matter. If you won’t get your things, I will.”

  “I hate you!”

  “Look. I’m working hard to protect both of us—all of us. Help me out a little, will you?”

  From behind Bertha, Aunt Lucy said, “I can sleep on the couch. I don’t have to go into Doree’s room.” Then Aunt Lucy told Doree, “You need to cooperate.”

  Doree burst into tears. “I wish my mother was here.”

  Bertha crossed the room and gathered Doree into her arms. “So do I.”

  With Toni gone Bertha’d asked herself what worse could possibly happen. But at that moment, Bertha saw that she had a lot more she could lose.

  *

  Bertha lay motionless. It was still dark. She was sure she’d heard a noise. Rolling over, Bertha touched the cool sheet next to her. It was empty.

  She sat up and blinked. Maybe Doree had gotten up for the bathroom. She waited for a few minutes. The house was quiet. She got out of bed and padded into the carpeted hallway. The nightlight was on in the bathroom and the door stood open. Doree wasn’t there. Bertha checked Doree’s bedroom and found the bed still made. She went down the stairs. The living room and kitchen were empty. The TV was on in the sunken family room, and Aunt Lucy was sprawled on the couch beneath an afghan. Then something in her periphery caught Bertha’s attention. The alarm system next to the door to the garage had been turned off.

  “What’s wrong,” a voice whispered.

  Bertha turned and saw Aunt Anne at the top of the stairs.

  She asked a little louder, “What’s going on?”

  “Is Doree in your room?” Bertha asked.

  Anne covered her mouth with her hand and shook her head no.

  “Did you hear anything?”

  “I could hear you walking around,” Anne said. “That’s what got me out of bed.”

  “No, Doree—”

  From the couch, Aunt Lucy said, “Call the police.”

  “She’s got to be around here,” Bertha said.