Four Blind Mice

covered with fire trucks. He was liking this extra attention, seemed to think it was funny.
    “Don’t get used to this, little buddy,” I told him.
    I checked on Nana, and she was still resting. She was fast asleep, actually. I listened to her breathing for a couple of minutes. She seemed all right.
    Her bedroom was so peaceful, but not old-lady rosy. There was a fuzzy, very colorful orange and purple rug at the foot of the bed. She says the rug gives her happy feet.
    I took Little Alex upstairs to my room, where I hoped to get some work done that morning. I called a friend at the Pentagon. His name’s Kevin Cassidy. We had worked a murder case together a few years back.
    I told him about the situation at Fort Bragg, and how little time Sergeant Cooper had on death row. Kevin listened, then cautioned me to be extremely careful. “There are a lot of good folks in the army, Alex. Good people, well intentioned, honorable as hell. But we like to clean up
our own
messes. Outsiders aren’t usually welcome. You hear what I’m saying?”
    “Ellis Cooper didn’t commit those murders,” I told him. “I’m almost certain of it. But I’ll take your advice to heart. We’re running out of time, Kevin.”
    “I’ll check into it for you,” he said. “Let
me
do it, Alex.”
    After I got off the phone with the Pentagon, I called Ron Burns at the FBI. I told him about the developing situation at Fort Bragg. The director and I had gotten fairly close during the troubles with Kyle Craig. Burns wanted to get me over to the Bureau, and I was thinking about it.
    “You know how territorial local cops can be,” he said. “The army is even worse, especially when it comes to a homicide.”
    “Even if one of their own is innocent and wrongly accused? Even if he’s about to be executed? I thought they didn’t leave their own out there to die.”
    “If they believed that, Alex, the case would have never gone to trial. If I can help, I will. Let me know. I don’t make offers that I don’t keep.”
    “I appreciate it,” I said.
    After I got off the phone, I brought Little Alex downstairs for some more milk. I was becoming faintly aware of just how much work was involved every day, every hour of every day, at the house. I hadn’t even done any cleaning or straightening up yet.
    I decided to check on Nana again.
    I gently opened the door.
I couldn’t hear anything.
    I moved closer to the bed.
    Finally, I could hear the sound of her breathing. I stood stock-still in her bedroom, and for the first time that I could remember, I worried about Nana.
She was never sick.

Chapter 23
    NANA FINALLY GOT up about noon. She shuffled into the kitchen holding a thick new book,
The Bondwoman’s Narrative
. I had a hot lunch ready for her and the baby.
    She didn’t want to talk about how she was feeling and didn’t eat much, just a few spoonfuls of vegetable soup. I tried to get her over to Dr. Rodman’s, but she wasn’t having any of it. But she did let me cook the meals for the rest of the day and take care of the kids and clean the house from top to bottom, per her explicit instructions.
    The next morning I was up before Nana for the second day in a row. It was unheard-of in all our years together.
    While I waited for her to come to the kitchen, I took in the familiar sights. Paid attention, that is.
    The room is dominated by her old Caloric gas stove. It has four burners and a large space she uses to hold goods cooling or waiting to be cooked. There are two ovens side by side. A large black skillet sits on top of the stove at all times. The refrigerator is also an older model that Nana refuses to give up for a newer one. It’s always covered with notes and schedules about our life together: Damon’s choir and basketball schedules; Jannie’s “whatever” schedule; emergency phone numbers for Sampson and me; an appointment card for Little Alex’s next pediatrician checkup; a Post-it on which she has written her latest sage advice:
You will never stumble while on your knees.
    “What are you up to, Alex?” I heard the familiar scuff of her slippers. I turned and saw her standing there, hands on hips, ready for battle, or whatever.
    “I don’t know. The ghost of breakfast past? How are you feeling, old woman?” I said. “Talk to me. You okay?”
    She winked and nodded her tiny head. “I’m just fine. How ’bout yourself? You okay? You look tired. Hard work taking care of this house, isn’t it?” she said, and