Wireman

CHAPTER 12

BETTY LAWRENCE was wrestling with panty hose that refused to slip over her wide hips when she heard the news about Willie.

For three-quarters of an hour the sermon coming from the old brown Zenith radio was an inspiration to her soul. Reverend Phillip Wilco was a fiery preacher and his Sunday sermons set up Mrs. Lawrence for the service she later sat through at the nearby Assembly of God church.

But when the last “amen” had sounded from the radio and the choir finished “Amazing Grace,” the news broadcast brought an abrupt end to Mrs. Lawrence’s religious fervor. The insane words coming from the Zenith turned her whole world upside down.

“And this just in—the ten-year-old son of Officer John DeShane of the Houston Police has been brutally murdered. Reports say the child was found in an empty lot on the south side of town last night. There has been no statement from the Chief’s office at this time. Officer DeShane is a patrolman who joined the force last year. An update on this and the rest of today’s news later in the hour. This is KTRH…” Mrs. Lawrence heard ringing in her ears that drowned out the radio. She looked down at herself and saw that she still had her hands caught in the waistband of her panty hose. She drew them up the rest of the way and dropped her skirt.

Willie!

She forced her feet into a pair of flat brown shoes before sitting down heavily on the bed. She wiped her hand across her eyes as if to deny what she had just heard.

Not Willie!

Taking a deep breath, she reached for her large pocket book, turned off the radio, and left her house.

She glanced up and down the street. The buses were not running this early on Sundays. She would have to walk most of the way.

Willie was Jack’s hope. His hope of heaven, that’s what the Reverend Wilcox would say.

Mrs. Lawrence walked a mile before she heard a city bus coming up behind her. She hurried to a bus stop and waited, coins poised in her sweaty palm. She had forgotten her coat, but no matter. She felt hot and damp all over.

She had her key out before she got to the door of the DeShane house. The car was not out front. Without knocking she unlocked the door and walked inside. The empty, tomb-like atmosphere focused all her emotion.

My little boy, she thought, in the awful stillness. Who would kill my little boy? Tears crowded her eyes and turned the world into a watery hell.

She spied a red and white football helmet lying on the sofa cushions. Willie wanted to be a running back. The coach thought he would make a good one.

Mrs. Lawrence moved to the helmet and picked it up by the chin strap. She caressed the smooth plastic dome. She began to cry, and the helmet fell from her hands to roll across the floor.

Put it away, she told herself. Willie will never be a football player. Or a policeman like his dad. Or an adult.

She wiped at the tears with a fierceness that surprised her.

Mrs. Lawrence began to search the house for all of Willie’s belongings. When she had her hands full, she took them to Willie’s bedroom and threw them in the closet until it bulged with jackets, socks that needed washing, and notebooks from school. She made a careful tour through every room in the house to make sure there was nothing left to remind Jack of the boy. She couldn’t purge the boy from his father’s heart, but she had to put Willie’s things aside for a little while until the father could even stand to see them.

She did not think it through or consider whether her employer would want her to do it or not. She only knew it was for the best.

After making sure all of Willie’s things were in his room, she went to the kitchen and made a strong pot of tea. To keep busy she took out a skillet, margarine, and bread, and fried three pieces of toast. Willie hated toast from the toaster. It was too crusty and dry and hard. He liked the southern style toast fried to a slight crisp, smeared with plenty of margarine. Fried toast had become his favorite snack.

When it was finished, she sat at the table with the teapot, an old chipped cup and saucer she had brought from her home, and the toast. She sipped at the sweetened tea and stared forlornly at the toast. She was not hungry. What had she been thinking, frying the bread? Who was there to eat it? Who in this household would ever eat fried toast again? In all her fifty-six years she had only given way to her emotions once—when her elderly father had died sitting in the porch swing while she shelled peas, unaware he had died.

But as she looked at the fried toast all the hurt, grief, and anger poured out once again. She ran upstairs to the young boy’s room.

Kneeling at Willie’s bed, burying her head in his covers, Betty Lawrence wept as if she would never stop.

Clouds from the Gulf obscured what warmth the one o’clock sun promised.

Jack felt cold, so cold his teeth chattered as Sam led him to the porch. The six double Scotches had not warmed him. He carried another bottle in his arms, cradling it carefully because he knew he was not walking straight and it would make a mess if he dropped it.

Mrs. Lawrence heard them entering the front hall, but stayed at the table listening. She had dried her tears on Willie’s pillow and had no more to give. From the muttered sounds and the shuffling of feet through the house, she could tell Jack was drunk. It was no less than she expected. She heard Sam’s voice gently placating and prodding the young father toward his bedroom. Betty closed her eyes and waited. There must be something she was needed for.

Coming into the kitchen for a glass, Sam was startled to see her. “Mrs. Lawrence. How did you find out?” he asked.

She opened her eyes. “It was on the radio news.”

“I’m sorry you had to hear it that way. I know you were fond of the boy.”

“I loved him. He was a good boy.” It was the first time she had used the past tense. She felt a catch in her throat and swallowed hard.

Sam waved the clean glass he took from the cupboard at her. “Jack had to make the identification. We’ve been at Danny’s Bar. He wants to drink himself to death right now, but he’ll make it. Someway.”

“Yes,” she echoed softly. “He’ll make it. I have a good mind to drink with him, but I’m fighting it since this is the Lord’s day.” She snorted and looked down at her hands in her lap. “The Lord’s day,” she repeated as if it were a joke.

Sam stayed behind the closed door of Jack’s room for an hour. Then he went to the breakfast alcove. He took Mrs. Lawrence’s hands and sat across from her.

“Tell me everything you know,” she demanded. “I’ve been waiting.” Sam told her the whole story in a halting voice that kept veering off into sudden silences. He spared her none of the details because he knew her strength. If she was to console Jack, she had to know everything.

When he finished, Mrs. Lawrence withdrew her hands and pressed down her skirt into neat folds along her thighs. She had rushed the images of the boy’s killing from her mind as quickly as she could. No sense dwelling on it, she thought, because it will kill me. “I’ll make you a sandwich,” she said, rising stiffly. “You must be hungry.”

“I’m not hungry. I’ve got Scotch in my veins.”

“Scotch is for the young cop!” she said with such vehemence that Sam jerked his head up at the sound of her voice. “The boy’s father can swig all he wants ’cause that’s his privilege, he needs it now. But you’re an old man. I hear you’re the smartest policeman this rotten dirty city’s ever had.”

When Sam started shaking his head in denial, she hurried on. “Don’t think I’m just a dumb nigger woman, Mr. Bartholomew. I’ve done my checking up on you. You got a reputation and some folks say you’re washed up. But I don’t believe that trashy talk. I lived in this town when you were the one in all the papers over that bunch of murders happened to those poor boys down in Pasadena. They only called in the best, and when they looked to Houston, they looked to you.”

“That was a long time ago, Mrs. Lawrence,” Sam said sorrowfully. “I’m retired now. I’m old. You said so yourself.”

“Old’s nothing! Don’t mean nothing. You sat there and told me you think Willie’s killer is a… a…”

“Psychopath,” Sam said.

“Right. You know all about that kind of crazy man. I don’t know why you ain’t already looking for him. You that’s got all the experience and know-how. And you tell me you don’t want to eat. No, you want to swill whiskey and throw up your hands!”

Sam stared at the black woman in surprise. He had never heard her speak more than a half-dozen words in his presence. She had been reticent bordering on subservient. Suddenly he smiled at her. It seemed to him he had not smiled for a year. “I like ham and cheese, hold the mayo,” he said. “You might be able to talk me into a cup of that witch’s brew in your teapot if you’re nice about it.”

Mrs. Lawrence adjusted the twin poodle pin on her bodice. The old geezer had some sense left, after all, she thought. Nobody could bring Willie back to them, but if anybody was going to pay for it, they all needed Sam Bartholomew out there trying to find a killer. “Cream and sugar or lemon?” she asked.

“Lemon.”

“Coming up, Mr. Bartholomew. Just let me catch my wits. I swear they’ve run away from me.” Placing a copper kettle on the stove, she stared at the flames. “I think I like him just fine,” she said to herself.