Not in the Heart (8 page)

C
HAPTER
12

I wandered through the lobby looking for a local map but found none. Finally I got desperate and asked the newcomer at the information desk to help me find Oak Street. I could have hailed a cab, but with the cash running low and my legs aching for movement, I decided to hoof it.

It doesn't matter what you think of me for leaving without seeing my son. Nothing you could say or think would make me feel any worse. And as I walked along the streets, carrying the bag, I couldn't help but think what a depressing sight I was to even the casual bystander. With the bandage on my face and the black-and-blue eye, all I needed was a guitar and a harmonica and I might have been able to make cab fare.

Pastor Miller was wrong. Helen Wright's house wasn't even close to the hospital. What I thought would be a few blocks turned into too many. The sun was still beating down when I reached an older section of town that had suffered through the recent economic downturn. The Wrights' house had aluminum siding that had been painted white, but dark brown showed through chips and cracks. There was a chain-link fence around it and the rickety porch swing hung at an angle. Metal chairs looked like they had survived WWII.

A button hung on the doorjamb by two thin wires, so I knocked and heard a dog bark and scratch at the door. Moments later a woman wearing an apron over a ratty nightgown opened the door. The nightgown covered a misshapen body. A kindred spirit. I could tell it in her eyes. We were both like living babushka dolls, all frump outside and hollow inside.

She looked through the screen at my paper bag. “I'm not buying.”

“I'm not selling.”

A small, arthritic poodle sniffed the air and I heard the faint sound of sizzling meat.

“What's in the poke?” she said.

It took me a second to realize what she was asking. “Just some articles. Newspaper clippings.”

She kept her head down, staring at the poke. “What do you want?”

I'm not above manipulation and letting people believe something that isn't true in order to get information, but standing on Helen's porch made it seem a bit unethical not to shoot straight. Yes, even to me.

I told her my name, as if that mattered. I told her I wanted to talk about Diana. About Terrelle Conley's execution.

“You a reporter?”

“I was,” I said.

“What are you now?”

“A guy looking for answers.”

“I ain't got nothing to tell you,” she said. She closed the door and the dog jumped up to a worn spot on the back of the couch by the window and barked, but you could tell his heart wasn't in it. It could have been from the pain in his legs as much as his aversion and distrust of me.

The mangy thing followed me to the next window and all around the house as I walked the overgrown path. Weeds were as tall as the windows and the back step was just a cinder block or two.

Helen Wright was neither slight nor pretty, but she had long dark hair that was streaked with the requisite gray of the grieving. She must've known I was at the back door because her curly-haired alarm barked at the top of its lungs, which sounded like they were giving out. She kept her back to me, hovering like Escoffier over her stove turning greasy chicken legs and livers with a greasy fork. I'm an experienced reporter; I could tell by the smell through the screen it was chicken. I was also a very hungry reporter. I hadn't had anything since the pancakes.

That's when I spied the beautiful thing in the window squinting its eyes at every bark. Disdainful of the noise and smells and surroundings, she sat with her paws curled underneath and only moved to breathe, content, peaceful, solitary. Such a placid sight, it reminded me of Murrow and made me wonder where she would spend the night.

“Is that a Himalayan?” I said through the screen.

Helen didn't turn around.

“What a beautiful cat. Why would you want to keep that mangy mutt around when you could give her free reign of the house?”

“That mangy mutt saved my life last year. I've never had a cat do that; have you?”

“I'm not sure. I think my cat may have saved my life several times, but she doesn't usually put out a press release like dogs do.”

She spoke without looking at me, facing a yellow-coated oven fan. “What do you have against dogs?”

“I'm just not a dog person, I guess. Too much work. They need your attention. They need you to tell them when to shut up and when to go to the bathroom. Too dependent. I like the independence and who-cares attitude of cats.”

She turned a little and gave a wry smile. “That's what Diana always said.”

“Smart girl.” I opened the back door and Fluffy or whatever her name was jumped down from the window and came outside to sniff everything she could get her nose near. I gingerly moved in, and since Helen didn't object, I felt I was on safe ground. I put my Mr. Piggly on the table. I always name my projects and that seemed as good as any at the moment.

“You wouldn't have enough for two, would you?” I said.

She didn't acknowledge the question. Her feet were swollen and crusty, white in that diabetic, lack-of-circulation way, with blue veins showing and ankles that looked like sledgehammers.

Finally, when the silence was killing me, she said, “This look like a homeless shelter?”

I looked around the kitchen. To be honest, the health department would probably shut it down if it were a homeless shelter. “I could run out for a bottle of wine,” I said. “What goes best with fried chicken? Two-buck Chuck cabernet?”

Without missing a beat, she said, “I'd go for a zinfandel, that pink stuff.” She pronounced it emphasizing the middle syllable like it was wine made from ceiling fans. “You can join me if you want. Can't promise it'll be good, but it'll probably fill your stomach.”

“It smells like a five-star restaurant in here,” I lied. It smelled more like a Kentucky Fried Chicken, but I wasn't complaining.

“I'll feed you, but I won't answer your questions about that man.”

“I understand,” I said, pulling out a chair. “Then tell me about Diana.”

Her fork hovered over the skillet. “What do you want to know?”

“What was she like? What do you miss the most? Did she have dreams about the future?”

She didn't speak for a moment. Then she looked out the side window with a long stare. “Every Thursday night she would pick up Chinese from this little restaurant near the beauty shop and we'd watch
ER
. That was her favorite show.”

Another hospital drama. Diana and I would not have gotten along.

“She loved that Dr. Ross. Every time he came on the screen, she would wave her hand like she was having a hot flash.” Helen chuckled and her lungs rattled until she had to support herself with one hand on a cabinet. “I miss just having her here. I miss her talking about what was going to happen when she got her big break and went to Hollywood and became a hairstylist for the stars. What she wouldn't have given to get her hands on that man's hair.”

She shook her head, then turned the chicken a few millimeters. “I've got some potato salad in the refrigerator if you want it.”

It was more of a demand than an offer, and when I discovered the plastic tub in the refrigerator, I knew why. I nearly threw my back out carrying it to the table. Helen kept her potato salad in five-gallon drums. I left the plastic top on because there were ample flies providing air movement in the kitchen.

“Did she ever date?” I said.

“She had some boyfriends in high school. Guys who were just out for one thing. But unlike me, she managed to avoid anything too devastating.”

“You mean your husband wasn't a good man?”

She gave me a look over her bifocals. “Honey, to me those two words don't go together. ‘Good man' to me is like ‘jumbo shrimp.'”

An oxymoron. She didn't know the term, but she had the concept. I wondered if Ellen felt the same way. Or Aiden. Or my daughter, Abby. Did they think men could be good after living with me?

Helen continued. “After she finished beauty school, there were a few relationships, but nothing serious. At least not that I knew about.”

“What about Curtis Tompkins?”

She worked at the meat, poking and prodding it. “I don't talk about that man much either.”

“Did he make advances?”

“She said he did. She told him to go jump in the lake.”

“One with gators, I hope.”

She clucked. “Diana knew it wasn't personal. He was after all the younger women. And after what he did for me, I'm not going to run the man down.”

“What did he do?”

“He and some others at the shop got together and paid for the funeral. Even brought a gift over afterward. I never forgot that.”

“Some people think what happened . . . that he might have had something to do with it.”

She set two bloodshot eyes on me. One was opaque. The way she cocked her head made me think she could only see through one.

“The man who killed Diana is locked up. I hope he dies a slow and painful death.” The chicken sizzled hotter and gave an eerie charge to her words. “They ought to bury him alive like he did to Diana. Did you know that? The coroner said she was probably still alive when he covered her up with that junkyard dirt. Still breathing. Do you have that in your Piggly Wiggly bag?”

“I didn't know that.”

“Well, it's true. Nothing good can come from telling this man's story.”

Instead of withholding the information, I told Helen that Terrelle wanted to donate his heart.

“Anybody who takes that man's heart will be cursed the rest of their lives.”

I watched a fly land on the potato salad container, rubbing two legs together in hope or hunger. Maybe in prayer. I had to weigh my reaction to her words and decided, in an unguarded moment, to just tell her.

“My son is actually going to be the recipient. He's the one who will be cursed.”

She picked off a piece of meat with the fork and blew on it before she stuck it in her mouth. “What's wrong with your son?”

I touched my chest. “Bad ticker. He's had heart problems since he was little. We've always known he'd need a new one, but we didn't think it would be this soon.”

She shook her head. “I wouldn't wish that man's cold heart on my worst enemy, let alone my kid. Tough choice to make, I imagine.”

“It might be if we weren't out of options.”

“So you know him. The condemned. You're writing a friendly story about him to get people's sympathy.”

I shook my head. “My wife knows his wife from her church. He was a match for my son.”

“And you want me to feed you information about Diana to make his story look better.” There was a hardness to her words, like these were the only weapons she had left.

“You don't have to give me anything. This transplant could save Aiden's life. The book will try to get at the truth.”

She rolled her eyes. “As if you people care about the truth.”

She put several paper towels on a dish and forked out the dripping chicken. The poodle sat in the corner, dark circles under his eyes.

“If your son is so all-fired important, why aren't you over there at the hospital?”

“He's asleep,” I said. “I needed to take a break and found your house.”

She put the chicken on the table and grabbed two plates and forks from beside the sink. Napkins were in a rooster-shaped holder. I could tell we were going to need them.

“You want to say grace?” she said.

Her request surprised me, but I took it in stride. I folded my hands and closed my eyes, trying to remember my mother's prayers when I was small. I guess some things stick with you even though you decide to move on.

“Father in heaven, we thank you for this food and ask you to bless it to the nourishment of our bodies. And we pray you would bless all who are gathered around this table. And those who aren't here. In your name, amen.”

I opened my eyes and saw Helen biting into the chicken, the breading falling off the meat. She had been watching me the whole time.

“Do you have pictures of her I could see?” I said.

“Of Diana? I took most of them down, but there are some photo books in her room.”

I wolfed a piece of the chicken and in the process bit my cheek and tasted blood. Not a good way to start dinner. I tried the potato salad. It was creamy, with celery, pimentos, olives, boiled eggs, and a few mystery vegetables. The coolness of it felt good against my cheek and I complimented Helen on the texture. She said she had made it for a family gathering she didn't attend a couple of weeks earlier. “Got to get rid of it before it goes bad.”

Great to know.

She asked what had happened to my face and I told her my cat scratched me. She pressed and I said it was nothing. “Just a misunderstanding.”

“Looks more like a lawsuit.”

“Is this where Diana grew up?” I said, deftly switching topics. Don't try this at home. I'm a professional.

“No, she grew up in Ocala. After my husband died, we took the little money from the insurance and moved here, closer to my sister. She would cut hair in the front room for people in the neighborhood. Sometimes out on the front porch of the evenings. She'd do it for free to the kids and the older folks. The parents usually came and gave her a few dollars. I was on disability. Then she finally got hired over at the salon. She was always working and trying to help pay the bills. Never did one selfish thing in her life.”

We ate in relative silence with nothing but the poodle's whine and the residual skillet sizzle. I noticed some muffled street noise—cars passing, kids squealing, and the
thump-thump
of booming bass notes drivers wanted to share with the world. It reminded me of the days when Mom and I would sit down to a meal of macaroni and cheese or hot dogs and pork and beans and have it interrupted by my father. He would head straight for the refrigerator and grab a beer, grousing about how tough it was being on the job all day, but you could tell from his eyes and his breath that he'd been “working” at the local bar.