Until She Comes Home

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

All of the ladies were out and about this morning after spending a quiet day yesterday to reflect on the loss of Elizabeth and the state of their own neighborhood. Because most of them traveled to Willingham for their regular shopping trip, news will have spread and everyone will know about Grace and Orin and the colored men. They will have watched Grace and the men from behind the cover of heavy drapes, but they won’t have heard enough. They’ll want to know more but won’t dare ask. Malina is one to ask. No longer able to ignore Malina’s shouts, Grace finally stops on the sidewalk.

“I’m running late,” Grace says, tugging at her white gloves as she walks toward Malina. Julia’s house is directly across the street. Another morning has passed with no phone call or bus ride. Maybe on her way home, Grace will be able to stop in for a visit. She’ll feel better after spending some time on Willingham, stronger again. Mrs. Nowack and the women will help her make pierogi and they won’t ask about the colored men or wonder what terrible things Grace has done. They’ll mix up dough, roll it, boil it, and send Grace home with a box full of pierogi. It’ll be easier to breathe as soon as she gets to Willingham, and when she returns, she’ll stop to see Julia. “I’m afraid I haven’t time to visit.”

“I didn’t realize how much mending there was to do with those clothes I took from your garage,” Malina says.

Inside her own garage, Malina is bent over one of the several boxes and bags that cover the floor. Old clothes, sheets, and towels spill out of each one. She lifts a delicate yellow blouse, holds it up by the shoulders, shakes it, and folds it over her arm.

“I’m afraid I didn’t realize either.” Grace checks her watch. The bus will be along shortly. She resists glancing back at Julia’s house. James said Grace should pop in for a visit because Julia was having a tough time of it. The bus will be along shortly and Grace can’t miss it. She’ll have to visit Julia later. “If you’ll point out which bag,” she says. “I’ll get right to it.”

Malina scans the garage floor. Beyond her, Warren Herze’s tools hang from a pegboard. More and more of the neighborhood men have taken up the same idea, all of them so worried about their tools. Folks can’t be trusted anymore, some of them say. Not like it used to be. Got to keep track as best we can. All the tools fit perfectly, as if they are part of a child’s puzzle. The hammer is the one missing piece.

“There,” Malina says. “Right near your feet. That whole bag needs to be mended. I hate to ask it of you. Perhaps one of the other ladies can help.”

“I’ll get busy on them today.”

There is a pause while Malina digs into another bag and Grace braces for the questions. What ever were you doing talking with a Negro, and why would you have Orin shoot the man? What is it that you know, Grace Richardson, that the rest of us don’t? With Elizabeth lying in a box, won’t you tell us what you know?

“You’re a dear,” Malina says, and continues her sorting and folding.

The pause ends. No questions. Not even a mention of Elizabeth or her funeral or what could be done for poor Mr. Symanski.

“I’ll get some help with these,” Grace says, groaning as she bends to lift the brown bag.

“Thank you ever so much,” Malina says, staring at the pegboard. “Feel free to drop them at the thrift store when you’re finished.”

Julia should get up. Every other morning, she’s out of bed by six thirty. Breakfast for Bill, dishes, and then breakfast for the twins. They usually want pancakes. But Bill is gone, and the girls, even if they are awake, make no noise. They don’t need her yet, but before the day is over, they will. Soon enough, if not already, everyone will know Bill is gone. It’s as if Maryanne has died a second time. As if Julia knowing the truth brought back her baby and killed her again. As if Julia knowing is as bad as what Bill did. The pain of it sits on her chest, pressing down so she struggles for every breath. Her legs are heavy. Her arms ache.

She must have dozed off, because when she wakes again, the room is hot. Swinging both legs off the edge of the bed, she rests her feet on the floor and pushes herself into a sitting position. At first she welcomes the stillness. Near the door, her packed suitcase waits for her. She had planned to leave the girls with Bill, but that was before. Now that he is gone, they can come with her. They’ll make a vacation of it. The girls need some time away. All this acting out can be cured with a little extra time spent together. They’ll ride on the train, stay in a nice hotel, eat supper at a fine restaurant. The nurses and doctors at the Willows will see how good Julia is to the girls, how much they love one another, and they’ll give her a baby even though she has no husband. Even though Elizabeth Symanski will never come home. Even though Julia’s own baby died.

In the kitchen, Julia scrambles eggs instead of frying pancakes, but then she notices the time. It’s past noon, too late really for breakfast. She listens for the girls in their room overhead. She waits for footsteps pounding down the hallway or the sound of one of them bouncing off her mattress, the springs creaking under her weight. Nothing. She leans over the sink so she can see into the backyard. During this time of day, they like to sit in the shade thrown by Bill’s shed. Using white sticks of chalk, they draw on the concrete slab there. Sometimes tic-tac-toe boxes, other times line figures. The slab is empty and the latest drawings have been worn away to a few white slashes. At the bottom of the stairs, she shouts overhead, “Izzy, Arie, come on down.”

She waits but hears nothing.

The girls need to bathe so their hair will have time to dry before they leave for the station. There must be several trains to choose from. The newspaper article said every line in the country leads straight into the heart of Kansas City. They probably leave at all hours. She slides the eggs to a cool burner, sits, and flips through the phonebook, not entirely certain what she is searching for.

It’s nearly one o’clock when she thinks of the girls again. Most of the year, she is alone in the house while Bill is off to work. She is accustomed to the quiet, to the creak of the fan, the hum of the refrigerator when it clicks on. She forgets sometimes that it should be otherwise when the girls are visiting. She looks out the back window again and then out the front door. So she can get a better view, she walks to the end of the driveway, the bright sunlight making her squint. She calls for the girls up and down the street. No sign of them. Back inside, she climbs the stairs and opens their bedroom door.

The walls are white because the girls couldn’t agree on a color two years ago when Bill painted it. And when Julia bought each a new bedspread for her bed, they still couldn’t agree. It was blue popcorn chenille for Izzy and yellow for Arie. Arie makes her bed every morning without being asked. She tucks her hospital corners, straightens her bedspread, and fluffs her pillow. Izzy is careless with her bed, leaving the wrinkled sheets and the bedspread to hang unevenly. Julia can’t bear to see one half of the room tidy and the other disheveled, so she always fixes Izzy’s bed. Arie should complain, has a right to, but she never does. Some days, Arie tries to do the work for her sister, but Julia won’t allow it. Izzy might break the rules. Arie never does.

This morning, this afternoon, like always, Arie’s yellow bedspread lies smoothly across her bed and her pillow is centered on the headboard. Izzy’s should be untidy. Her spread should be crumpled, her pillow flat where she slept on it. But Izzy’s bed is as well made as Arie’s. It looks like it did yesterday after Julia fixed it. She had scolded the girls for stealing from Mr. Symanski. She had told them their promises meant nothing. Izzy’s bed looks as if it hasn’t been slept in and the rosary that usually hangs from Arie’s headboard is gone.

Stumbling backward, Julia grabs for the doorknob to steady herself. They were here last night. After Julia made a mess of the kitchen. After James came. No, that was Wednesday. They were home Wednesday. And then Thursday. Bill and she argued that morning. She told him to keep his voice down. The girls were sleeping. Bill trapped Julia against the wall and she ordered him to go. And then the stolen tuna and the hammer and Elizabeth’s belt. That was last night. Did she fix them supper? Surely she fed them. But what did she prepare? And didn’t she see them to bed before falling asleep herself?

She runs down the stairs and into the kitchen. Food overflows the trash can. The sour smell spills out into the living room and the foyer. There are only a few dirty dishes in the sink and dried-out strips of crust peeled from bread and slivers of SPAM-the girls’ favorite. Sandwiches they made for themselves.

Back in the foyer, Julia fumbles through her address book until she finds the number, dials, and waits. She had not asked where Bill was going when he left, but he had no choice other than his brother’s house. Catherine answers. No, Bill isn’t here. No, she doesn’t know where he is, at work most likely, and yes, she’ll pass on the message when she hears from him. Call back as soon as there’s news. Julia hangs up the phone. The house is empty. Like Elizabeth Symanski, the twins are gone.

Malina stands in her garage, surrounded by the donations she has gathered from the ladies. She really should have done a better job sorting and delivering them as they arrived on her doorstep. Across the street, Julia Wagner walks out of her house, and from the end of her driveway, she shouts for those twins. She must be calling them home to lunch. Malina tosses aside the gentleman’s shirt she had been folding and steps out of the garage into the sunlight.

Julia disappears inside and the street is quiet for a short while. She reappears, this time stumbling out the front door and down the drive. Her red hair hangs in her face and she wears a white cotton gown-her nightclothes. She begins to shout at the girls to come home. Over and over, she calls for them, her words stretching out to make room for her accent. Most days, Julia stands on her front porch and shouts at those girls as if calling home a dog. But something is different about her voice today. It’s strained, like she is nearly out of breath, and it’s pitched a bit higher, each word a bit rounder. That’s a scream. Yes, a person would call that a scream. Watching until Julia has disappeared back into her house, Malina runs inside, grabs her driving gloves and the car keys, and throws open the front door.

Slowing the car as she reaches the intersection of Woodward and Willingham, Malina turns right and parks in front of Wilson’s Cleaners. The street is empty because it’s past lunchtime. All of the ladies have come and gone. In a few weeks, at this very hour on a Saturday afternoon, the street will fill with folding tables and chairs. People from all over the city will come to buy homemade baked goods. They will have only Malina to thank for it. How many hours has she spent planning where each table will sit, following up to make certain every lady has done her baking, even brewing and serving the fresh coffee herself?

Once past Wilson’s Cleaners, Malina crosses Willingham and walks toward the factory. The men are back to work and the lot is full, but from the far side of the street, she’ll be able to see through all the cars, and among them, she’ll find Mr. Herze’s. It will be there. She’s certain of it. After those twins left the house yesterday, Malina had gathered up the clothing scattered across her lawn and followed Mr. Herze into the house. She promised him she had seen nothing, done nothing. He pushed her away, pulled on his hat, and left without another word. All night, he was gone, never came home to breakfast, and even when Malina left the house at well past noon, he had not yet come home. Surely he’s not the reason Julia stood at the end of her driveway, screaming and wearing her nightclothes.

Malina hasn’t been to Nowack’s Bakery in several days. None of the ladies are shopping there anymore because she won’t close on payday. It’s odd, then, that the door stands open and the strong smell of sautéed onions seeps outside. With no customers, who would Mrs. Nowack be baking for? The fans are running, too. Another sign that Mrs. Nowack is baking. Malina intended to walk past without even glancing at the shop. She intended to slip around the corner and from there, watch the parking lot. She certainly never intended to go inside the bakery, but that carriage stood in the center of the store, where a person walking past couldn’t help but see it.

She walks up the stairs that lead to the door and crosses inside. A small bell chimes. Straight ahead, the carriage’s black canopy is raised, and a yellow quilt lies across the bassinet. The canopy’s frame is twisted and the handle rusted. She moves closer, first sliding one foot across a white square tile and then another across a black tile.

“You are coming to buy bread?” Mrs. Nowack says, walking out from the back room. Her gray skirt is dusted with flour and her cheeks are red and shiny.

“I’m doing no such thing.”

Malina inches closer to the carriage.

Mrs. Nowack pushes aside the black curtain that leads to the back of the store. “Cassia,” she calls. “You are to be coming here to fetch this baby.”

A girl-the girl-walks out from behind the curtain. Her black hands are coated with flour up to her wrists and she wears a small white apron around her waist. She stops when she sees Malina.

“It’s too hot out back,” the girl says, staring at Malina. “You said my baby shouldn’t be back there.”

“You are to be taking her,” Mrs. Nowack says. “And you, if you are not buying, you are leaving.”

Malina takes another step toward the carriage, the narrow heel of her shoe tapping the floor. “I’ll do no such thing,” she says.

The girl is smaller even than she appeared the other night walking down a dark street. She rests her tiny hands on the carriage’s handle and pulls it toward her. Her face is like a doll’s; her shoulders and hips, slight. There must be an odor to her, like the one Malina washes from Mr. Herze’s shirts, but Malina can’t smell it over the onions and butter. With the carriage in hand, the girl backs toward the curtain, her feet so small and light they move silently. This girl wasn’t supposed to be the mother. The other woman-the larger one with rounded, full hips and thick legs-she was supposed to be the mother. But here is this girl, Mr. Herze’s girl, pulling on a carriage that carries Mr. Herze’s baby.

As if she belongs in this place, Grace Richardson walks out from the back room, a large white pastry box in hand.

“We have a good start, Mrs. Nowack.” She stops when she sees Malina and sets the box on the counter as if hoping Malina didn’t see her carrying it.

“I want to see inside that carriage,” Malina says.

Grace reaches out with one bare hand and touches the girl’s arm. She touches that girl as if they know each other. She touches that girl as if they care for each other.

“We’re nearly done back there,” Grace says to the girl. “It’s not so hot anymore.”

“I want to see under that quilt,” Malina says.

The girl tilts her small face and studies Malina. She is probably remembering Malina from a picture, perhaps the one on Mr. Herze’s desk. The girl shakes her head.

“I gave it back,” the girl says. “I already gave it back.”

“Stop talking your gibberish.” Malina stomps one white heel. “I’ve a right to look in that carriage.”

“I already gave that hammer back,” the girl says again.

Grace crosses in front of the girl and pushes the carriage behind her. “This is of no interest to you, Malina,” she says. And then, leaning forward so she can whisper, Grace says, “I promise you, it’s of no concern to you.”

“Of course it’s of no concern to me,” Malina says, and backs toward the door, but she stops when she notices the white box sitting on the counter. “Those are not pierogi, are they, Grace Richardson? I couldn’t imagine you’d let these women prepare food we are to eat. You have them do your cooking, and you leave your mending to me? It’s shameful.”

Grace was going to be Malina’s friend. She and James were going to come to supper and then she would call Malina for coffee and they might spend afternoons chatting together while the baby slept. Malina would bring sweet baby clothes as gifts and Grace would be her friend.

“You, Grace Richardson, are shameful.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

At the picnic table behind the bakery, Grace sits and, with white thread and a needle, reattaches a button to one of the dresses Mr. Symanski left in her garage. It’s the perfect excuse to stay a bit longer. She sits quietly, has for several minutes, so the baby has woken and is kicking and rolling. In between stitches, Grace rests a hand on her stomach to feel a small foot or knee. Each time she does, Cassia reaches out and lays her hand alongside Grace’s.

After Malina stomped out of the bakery, Cassia and the other women had worked silently to clean up from the pierogi, and because Mrs. Nowack had no more cooking or baking for them to do, they set to work on Grace’s mending. Sitting opposite Grace, Sylvie and Lucille each hold a dress close to their noses, squinting as they poke a needle through the fabric and pull it out the other side. Every so often, they hold up their dresses by the shoulders, swing them from side to side, and show off their work. Sitting next to Grace, Cassia rocks her carriage. Her motion carries through the wooden seat. Julia once said, before Maryanne died, that a woman rocks a baby in time to her own heart. That’s what Grace feels-Cassia’s heartbeat.

“Who these dresses belong to?” Sylvie asks.

Grace runs her fingers across the buttons on the bodice of the dress resting in her lap.

“Elizabeth,” she says.

“If you’re giving them away,” Cassia says, still rocking, “why you fixing them?”

“It’s the right thing to do.”

Cassia shrugs and Sylvie and Lucille carry on with their mending. Sylvie works a needle as quickly and smoothly as Grace’s own mother. Lucille struggles to reattach the buttons, shouting out every so often when she pokes herself.

“Do you know Malina Herze?” Grace asks, tugging on the cuff of one of Elizabeth’s dresses. She doesn’t look at any of them as she asks the question. “Before she came here today, did you know her?”

Sylvie sets aside her needle and thread, folds the dress over one arm. “Yeah, we know her. Know she causes trouble for Mrs. Nowack.”

“Does she cause any other trouble?”

“Person causes one kind of trouble,” Lucille says, biting through a strand of thread, “they bound to cause another.”

“You should stay away from her, Cassia.”

Cassia squirms on her seat. “I gave it back,” she says. “No one should be giving me any trouble. I kept it with me at first, but I gave it back.”

“The hammer?” Grace says. “Are you talking about a hammer?” She pauses, waiting for an answer. “Why did you have Malina’s hammer? Who did you give it to?”

“I found it,” Cassia says. “And I returned it.”

“She didn’t do no such thing,” Lucille says. She flicks her eyes toward the carriage and winks at Grace. “Cassia is confused, is all. She didn’t have no hammer. She just gets herself confused.” Having finished her work, Lucille passes the lavender dress to Grace and reaches into the brown bag for another. The beads on her thin braids rattle as she moves. “Will the ladies come back now? Will they come shopping here again?”

“I’m sorry,” Grace says, holding the dress by its shoulders so she can inspect it. “But I don’t think so.”

She gives the dress a shake, irons it flat with her hands, and fingers the lace collar. Elizabeth used to scratch and tug at her neckline whenever she wore the dress, but she never asked to take it off. Birthdays and Easter. It was always her favorite. And every year, twice a year, Ewa would bend and straighten her fingers and complain about the dress’s tiny buttons and stiff lace. Lifting the dress to her face, Grace inhales. It smells of Elizabeth, a light, sweet scent, the same as Ewa.

“The first day I came here, you mentioned a woman. I think her name was Tyla.” Grace hugs Elizabeth’s dress. “She was the woman who was killed here, wasn’t she?”

The women look among themselves but say nothing.

“You must have known her. You must miss her.”

“Ain’t no one missing Tyla,” Cassia says.

Sylvie lays a hand on Cassia’s shoulder. “She was mean as a snake, that’s for sure.”

“Both of you, hush.” It’s Lucille. With one eye closed, she is trying to thread a needle with blue thread. “No one needs to talk about that.” The thread finds its way through the eye of the needle and Lucille looks at Grace. “No need to talk about that,” she says again.

Grace folds Elizabeth’s dress in half and then in half again. “Stay away from Malina,” Grace says to Cassia.

Grace will have to return to Alder Avenue soon. She’ll stop at Julia’s and apologize for having not visited earlier. It’s time to go home.

“As best you can, stay away.”

Standing in Julia’s kitchen, tugging on their thick belts and tapping their heavy boots, the police don’t understand. How could they? No, Bill isn’t here. He’s been gone since yesterday morning. Julia doesn’t know where. She called his brother’s house. They’ll tell him when they see him. He wasn’t at work, either. When did she last see the girls? She can’t remember. They don’t understand why she can’t remember. Julia must have cooked the girls something for supper. The mess in the kitchen is nothing. It was an accident. She tipped over the garbage. Yes, Julia must have cooked them supper, must have seen them to bed after they took a bath and washed their hair, but she can’t remember.

The officer with brown hair scribbles with a yellow pencil. His name is Thompson. He’s the man who counted out eight houses and told Julia she probably didn’t see quite as much as she thought she saw the day Elizabeth disappeared. He was the first to know it was Julia’s fault Elizabeth would never come home.

“Their bedroom?” he asks, and both men follow Julia upstairs.

This is where they sleep. Arie in the yellow. Izzy in the blue. Julia always tidies up for Izzy. She isn’t so handy making a bed. But not today. It was already done so nicely. Julia begins to cry. She tells them that yesterday Izzy tricked her and snuck away to Beersdorf’s. The officers already know this. They’ll keep checking the streets between here and there, but so far, no sign of either girl.

Walking down the stairs, one of the officers holds Julia by the elbow so she won’t stumble. At the landing, she looks through the front door that stands open. Out on Alder Avenue, people are coming and going. No one bothers to close the door.

There was a belt and stolen tuna and the hammer. The girls came home with a hammer. They stole it from a neighbor’s yard. Malina Herze’s yard. Julia scolded them. She ordered them to return it and apologize. She must have insisted, because why wouldn’t she? Yes, now she remembers. They did try to take it back. They came home a few minutes later and said Mr. Herze didn’t want the hammer. He said it wasn’t his and a man would know his own hammer, but he took it anyway. If Warren Herze was home, it must have been after five. Five thirty or so. That’s it. She last saw them shortly after five o’clock. Yesterday. No, Bill wasn’t home. Yes, he was gone all night.

Soon enough, porch lights will glow up and down the street and stray beams of light, cast off from flashlights, will dart around side yards and throw their glare on picture windows. Everyone is remembering Elizabeth Symanski and hoping this doesn’t turn out the same.

When the two officers have made their way down Julia’s sidewalk and it’s apparent they are headed to Malina’s house, she walks back into the dining room and picks a carrot from the bunch lying on the table. Its leafy greens are a beautiful deep shade, not yet drooping or turning brown. The orange color is uniform from top to bottom. Suitable for one of her cakes. Behind her, in the kitchen, the side door creaks. Mr. Herze must have left it ajar. So odd he would go directly into the garage when arriving home early from work. Malina had watched him through the kitchen window. Wearing a shirt and tie and his best leather shoes, he walked from his car in through the garage’s side door. When he reappeared seconds later, Malina hurried back into the living room. He entered the house through the door off the kitchen, rushed past Malina, and as he climbed the stairs two at a time, he called out that he’d be taking up with the search party. When he came back down the stairs, red faced and panting and moving slower than he had on the way up, he wore brown slacks, a weekend shirt, and the shoes he normally wore when mowing the lawn. He left the house through the front door.

Shifting her attention back to the carrot, Malina rolls it from side to side, grabs the grater with her left hand, and begins to scrub the carrot over its tiny blades. Through her front window, she has been watching the ladies gather at the ends of their driveways. There is no reason for anyone to suspect Mr. Herze, no reason Malina should. Had she bothered to walk a few yards past the bakery, she would have seen his sedan parked in its usual spot. But in the end, she hadn’t seen the need. She left the bakery, marched to her car, and drove straight home.

It meant nothing to see that girl with the carriage. Any one of a dozen men could be the father of that child. Any one of a dozen women could be its mother. But there was the look the girl and Grace Richardson gave Malina. They both looked kindly upon Malina, their eyelids heavy, their lips slightly parted. They inhaled as if preparing to speak but not quite knowing the best words to use. They had looked at Malina with pity. With pity, for goodness sake.

Outside, the men and ladies continue to shout up and down the street. They leave their groups and spread out, disappearing around houses and down the block. It will do no good. If the twins were anywhere near, they would have heard the first call, and while their manners are atrocious, they generally come running when Julia calls. Still, from far away, and somewhat closer and as close as the next yard over, people shout out to those twins. Malina hears their calls through the mesh screen in her open dining-room window. Arie. Izzy. Or Arabelle. Isabelle. At the sound of a knock, Malina sets down the carrot, wipes her hands on her apron, and opens the door.

“Mrs. Herze?” the officer asks.

It’s the officer with the dark curls. He asks Malina’s name as if he doesn’t remember her. She was hoping for the sweet blond detective with the red lips.

“Certainly,” Malina says.

“We’ve a few questions for you,” the one with the straight brown hair says. “You are familiar with the girls who live across the street?”

“They don’t live there,” Malina says. “They are only visiting.”

“And you are aware they’re missing?”

“My husband is among the men searching.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the officer with dark curls says. “We understand they came to see you yesterday.”

“You make it sound as if they were visiting for pleasure.”

The straight-haired officer flips open a small notebook and taps on it with a pencil. He is hurrying Malina along.

“They are a menace, those two,” she says. “They were sent to deliver an apology.” Malina unties the apron at her waist and folds it over one arm. “Would you like to see what they did to my flowerbeds?”

“Do you recall the time of their visit, ma’am?”

“I certainly do. Five forty-five. Precisely. Mr. Herze had arrived home, and he is always quite precise.”

“And they had stolen something from you, ma’am?”

Malina smooths the apron that lies over her arm. She line dries them every Saturday morning, sprinkles warm water on them, and presses each with a hot iron. Behind her, the side door creaks, drawn open by the breeze that whips past the two officers and through the house. If they would ask, Malina would tell them. She knows she would. If only they would ask her… Do you think your husband is a bad man? Has he done bad things? Why would those girls steal a hammer? Such an odd thing for two girls to do. She would tell the truth, wouldn’t she, if only they would ask.

“Those two stole the fruits of my labor,” she says. “Ruined my lovely flowers.”

“A hammer?” one officer says, glancing at the small notebook he holds in his hand. “Yes, a hammer. They were here to return the tool?”

“Why on earth would I know about such a thing?”

“They didn’t return a hammer to Mr. Herze?”

“In order to return something, one must have first borrowed it.”

“But the girls were here?”

“To deliver an apology, yes.”

“And have you seen them since? Today, have you seen them today?” the curly-haired officer asks. “Or your husband? Is he available? Perhaps he has seen them.”

“He is most certainly not available. I already told you he is searching with the others. And no, I haven’t seen them. They’re wild, you know. It’s no wonder. Can the police really do nothing to help this neighborhood? First Elizabeth Symanski and now this.”

The officer with the cropped brown hair flips his small notebook closed but does not answer.

“Do you mean to imply they have been gone since last evening?” Malina says. “Do you mean to imply they’ve been gone all this time?”

The officer with the curls nods and pulls a sheet of folded paper from his back pocket. “Is this familiar to you?”

Malina leans over the crumpled flyer. LOST CAT, it reads.

“They were taped up in a nearby neighborhood. Mrs. Wagner thought your husband may have given them to the girls. She said he’d made other similar flyers.”

Malina touches the glossy paper. “I’m sure I wouldn’t know. What difference does that make to the matter at hand?”

“Only trying to determine their comings and goings.” The officer pulls on his hat, tips his head, says thank you, and asks Malina to contact them should she remember anything else.

Once the officers are gone, Malina walks back into the dining room to continue her work. When she has grated the first carrot down to a nub, she picks another from her pile and gives it the same inspection. Outside on Alder, men begin climbing into cars two at a time. Like Malina, they have received word the girls have been gone for hours, have been gone since coming to see Mr. Herze. The men are spreading out. A few of them will likely drive to the river where they found Elizabeth Symanski.

Rolling the carrot from side to side, Malina decides it, too, is good enough for one of her cakes. She begins to scrub it over the grater but stops when blood trickles down the knuckles of her first and second finger. She wipes them on her apron, making a mental note to scrub the stain with a toothbrush and dollop of baking soda, and starts on the next carrot.

Soon enough, the pile of carrots grows too large and falls over on itself, spraying orange slivers across the white tablecloth. Two cups per cake and she must have at least six cups by now. Everyone who comes to the bake sale hopes for one of Malina’s cakes. It’s a shame to disappoint any of them. Three more cakes means three more happy people. With both hands, she scoops up a pile of carrots and walks from the dining room toward the kitchen. A few of the orange slivers float down, spinning, tumbling onto the floor. As she passes the side door, she stops. Outside, voices continue to call out. Holding the carrots in her upturned palms, she kicks open the door and walks across the driveway.

Mr. Herze keeps his garage just so. He sweeps the concrete floor every Saturday and stores his nails and screws in wide-mouthed mason jars, each topped with a gold lid. Malina has ruined his tidy space with her bags and boxes. As if presenting the carrots to someone, Malina walks into the garage, stepping this way and that and lifting her knees when need be. Once near Mr. Herze’s workbench, she stops. Straight ahead, every outline on the pegboard is full. The hammer-Mr. Herze’s hammer-fits perfectly inside its black outline. The red-handled hammer, second tool from the left, hangs exactly as it should. Exactly as it had been the night Malina took it from the wall, tucked it in her handbag, and drove to Willingham Avenue. Exactly as it had been when that woman startled Malina and then said such terrible things. Things like what happens when a white man fathers a Negro child, how that baby will be the spitting image of the white man and everyone will know who fathered that child. And the girl, Mr. Herze’s girl, shouted at the woman to shut her mouth. Told the woman to never say one thing bad about the baby in the carriage or she’d be sorry. Goddamn it, she’d be sorry. The woman laughed at the girl. You’re crazy as a loon, the woman had said, and Malina ran away, leaving her hammer behind. That hammer, that same hammer, hangs exactly as it should in its spot on Mr. Herze’s pegboard.

Grace gets off the bus at Alder, and the moment she starts down the street toward home she notices something is familiar. Not familiar in a way that makes her happy to be home. It’s familiar in a way that makes her breath quicken, her skin turn cold, and her mouth go dry.

Balancing the pastry box on her large stomach and cradling the bag of mended clothes in one arm, she walks straight ahead, trying not to notice all of the ladies standing in their front yards, a few poking about behind bushes. She doesn’t take notice when cars drive up from behind and men who should be at work climb out. She doesn’t even look when James’s black sedan rolls past. A block ahead, he pulls into the driveway, doesn’t bother driving around to the garage, and runs back to Grace. He takes the box and bag from her.

“Anything?” he asks.

James’s hair is slicked back from his face where he’s combed it out of the way with his fingers, and smears of black grease cover his forearms where he didn’t take the time to wash up. A dull pain rolls around Grace’s baby. She doesn’t answer.

“Anything?” he says again. “Has Julia heard anything?”

Grace backs away.

“The twins?” she says.

Next, James will sketch a map of the neighborhood on the back of an envelope. He’ll draw boxes around each block and assign men two at a time. When it begins to get dark, all of the ladies will switch on their porch lights and they’ll bring hot coffee. They’ll check under porches and behind shrubs. A few men will walk around the Filmore, waiting, almost hoping someone from inside will come out. But they won’t. The police have already arrived, probably the same two officers, but this time they park at Julia’s house rather than Mr. Symanski’s. Only Grace knows what has happened. Only she knows how the men have grabbed the girls by their thin arms, made them cry out. The twins are both stronger than Grace, if not in size, then in spirit. They would cry loudly, as loudly as they could, but the men would silence them. Only Grace knows.

“Grace,” James says, bending to see into her face. “Are you well?”

The elms used to shade the front of their house and their lawn. Grace could leave the drapes open on the living-room windows year-round, but now the late-day sun would fade her sofa and carpeting. She holds up one hand to shield her eyes. James looks small, smaller than he ever has in all their married years.

“Did you check in the garage?” Grace says.

“The garage? You mean for the girls?”

Grace stares straight ahead at their own garage, its door open because she never closed it. Orin Schofield’s empty chair leans against the far corner where James must have placed it. Orin hasn’t come back outside since Grace called him to the street and showed him where the colored men now walk. She should have told Orin to pull the trigger. He’d have done it, if only she’d have let him.

Out on Alder Avenue, more cars pull into driveways and more husbands disappear inside before reappearing in their white undershirts and soft-soled shoes. Mr. Symanski comes too. He stands on the sidewalk outside Grace’s house. He wears gray slacks, a pair Grace hasn’t taken to the cleaners in several weeks. His white shirt is wrinkled and his tie hangs loose around his neck. His skin is fading to gray as if the life is draining out of him little by little. He won’t really die. Instead, he’ll continue to fade until eventually all of him is gone.

“Check every garage,” Grace says, and walks past James onto the street.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

At the sound of a car door slamming, the officer with dark curly hair stands from his chair at the kitchen table and walks into the entry. Julia remains seated, her hands flat on the red tabletop. She leans back and fingers a small chip in the Formica. This is the spot where Izzy usually sits. Grace must have already cleaned the table because its chrome edging shines, no fingerprints or water spots. Julia is never able to get such a shine when she cleans. It’s the vinegar water Grace uses. Much stronger than Julia’s.

The slamming car door is followed by footsteps on the porch. It’ll be an officer or another man from the neighborhood asking for directions on where to search. Julia doesn’t bother to check who it might be. At the kitchen sink, Grace wrings out a dishrag. She hasn’t spoken since she arrived but promptly set about sweeping and mopping and scrubbing every surface with her strong vinegar water. Just as it was when Maryanne died. Grace is the one strong enough to tackle the inside of Julia’s house.

“They told me it happens sometimes,” Julia says.

Grace leans over the counter and continues to scrub the stains in the bottom of the sink, stains that have been there for years, stains Grace will get out that Julia never could.

“When Maryanne died, that’s what the doctor said. Did I ever tell you?”

Pushing off the counter, Grace takes a clean towel from the drawer to her left and dries her hands. Her blond hair is swept back and held off her face by a white band. It’s pure, lovely.

“Never seemed right to me. A baby dying for no good reason at all. Does that figure right to you?”

“No,” Grace says. “No, it never did.”

Julia should care this will upset Grace, make her worry after her own baby’s safety, but she doesn’t. She can’t.

“He killed her.”

A few feet shuffle, a reminder there are others in the room.

“Bill,” Julia says. “That’s why he’s gone. He killed Maryanne, and he’s seeing that I suffer for it. He’s seeing to it I never have another baby.”

Grace looks at someone beyond Julia’s shoulder, but she doesn’t care anymore what people know.

“Bill wouldn’t,” Grace says. “He’d never do such a thing.”

“He couldn’t stand the crying. That’s what he said. Couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, couldn’t work. Couldn’t be bothered with her crying.”

“Did he tell you this, ma’am?”

The voice comes from behind her. It’s the officer with the dark curls, the same one who couldn’t understand why Julia didn’t remember when the girls disappeared.

“I kissed James,” Julia says. The lie is like the crack of a whip in the quiet room. “There.” She points to the entry. “I kissed him right there, and I’m not one bit sorry for it.”

Grace glances at the officer as if he can explain. He shakes his head.

“Pardon?” Grace says.

“There,” Julia says. “In the entry. Because he came and you didn’t.”

The officer approaches the table, where he stands over Julia.

“Everything is pitch-perfect for you, isn’t it?” Julia says, staring at Grace and ignoring the officer.

“Ma’am, who is Maryanne?”

“You have your fine husband, and soon, a baby of your own,” Julia says. “Your house. Your friends. People think highly of you and James. They don’t even realize Elizabeth was your fault too. Your fault as much as mine.” Julia pauses, inhales, smelling the soap Grace squeezed into the bucket of water she used to mop up the food Julia threw across the room. “And now the twins are gone just like Elizabeth. No one will blame you for them, either. Only me.”

“Ma’am, do you believe your husband has killed someone?”

“It won’t always be this way, Grace,” Julia says. “Your baby could die too.”

It’s the worst thing Julia could say to Grace, worse even than the kiss. It’s the most hurtful thing. She’s not brave enough or good enough to shoulder this pain alone.

Grace unties the apron around her waist and lays it over the back of a chair. While the heat causes Julia’s hair to frizz, it smooths Grace’s, makes it shine, even under the kitchen’s poor lighting. Her cheeks are flushed and damp from the washing and scrubbing, but her eyes are dry and clear. She tugs on the blouse that hangs over her large stomach and clears her throat as if to say something. But instead she walks past Julia, past the officer waiting for Julia to give him an answer, and out the door.

Up and down Alder, porch lights shine as they did the night Elizabeth disappeared. But tonight, the air is cooler and easier to take in, even with the weight of the baby pulling at Grace’s lower back. The ladies stand outside their screen doors, some of them wearing aprons even though they won’t be serving supper tonight. A block and a half down Alder Avenue, the street is bright with porch lights and streetlights. Mr. Symanski stands under the nearest one, its glow hemming him in. As with Elizabeth’s search, he has been left behind by the other men. When Grace reaches her own driveway, she stands near the back bumper of James’s car. He didn’t take the time to drive it around to the alley and pull it into the garage. He leaves it in the driveway whenever he thinks he might need it again soon.

There are three of them this time. They are silhouettes walking up the street. Mr. Symanski must see them too. They pass the Filmore, where the windows are mostly dark and the parking lot half full. When the three shadows reach the streetlight outside Mr. Symanski’s house, they transform into three men. Grace walks into the center of the street. Still more than a block away, one of the men stops while the other two continue on. Even from this distance, Grace can feel him staring at her. He lifts a hand. She knows he is stroking his chin, petting it. She turns and walks back to her driveway.

These men don’t bother with the alley anymore-haven’t since Elizabeth disappeared, haven’t since they took her and killed her. In the beginning, long before the neighbors began talking about the Filmore and the coloreds, they passed only in the night when the neighborhood was sleeping. They would leave their green glass scattered through the alley so someone would know they had been there, so someone would know they were coming. But they have gotten away with what they did to Elizabeth and to Grace and now they’ve taken the twins. They are proud. He is proud, and he flaunts it by walking where good people walk.

The car keys lie in the center of the front seat. James knows he should stop being so careless, knows the neighborhood is a changed place and he can’t leave his keys lying about anymore. But there they are. Grace opens the door and picks them up, wraps her fingers around them, squeezes until the metal warms. She knows the house key because she has the same one in her handbag. The other key is too small. She tries the silver one. First one way, and then the other. It slides in. It turns.

With one clean hand, Malina reaches behind herself and catches the white ribbon that cascades down her back, descending from a delicate bow attached at her wide embossed collar. A back bow, the saleswoman called it. It’s Malina’s loveliest dress-a red-and-white floral print with an empire waist most perfectly suited to accentuate her slender figure. She does wish she had spent more time in the sun. A person might call her skin sallow, gray even. She could dab more color on her cheeks. That would certainly help. Yet her waistline is no larger than the day she walked down the aisle to join hands with Mr. Herze. For that, she is thankful and proud. But she does so wish she had soaked up more sun. Letting the ribbon slip through her fingers, she brushes her hands together and picks up the decorator’s bag.

She begins by cupping the white triangular bag in one hand so the large end stands open and the narrow end hangs toward the table. Next, she scoops up a spoonful of icing and drops it inside. Another few scoops and she folds over the wide end of the bag, squeezing it slowly until icing drips from the tip. She licks her fingers, wraps one hand around the small end, and places the other above the bulge of icing. Already, ten cakes have been iced and a scalloped edge drawn on each. Because it’s so hot in the house, the trim has slid off a few of them and is melting down the cakes’ sides.

It will be payday again. Eventually. It comes quicker than any other day. Even before Mr. Herze comes home, Malina can smell it. She smells it every day now, so maybe payday doesn’t matter anymore. That sweet musky smell will stick to Mr. Herze’s collar. She’ll fill the kitchen sink and soak the shirt overnight. A year of paydays has passed since she first smelled it. She didn’t know what it was in those early days. Only that it was a sour, unforgiving smell that seeped into her house and she could never quite scrub it away.

She squeezes the white bag and icing drips onto the cake. Too warm. A scallop won’t hold its shape if the icing is too warm. The consistency is so important, the most important thing, really. Not quite as stiff as the icing she uses to sculpt leaves and rose petals, but thicker and drier than what she uses to ice the top and sides. Hold the bag horizontal to the cake. Give it one short burst of pressure to lay down the wide end of the shell, then let up. Slowly draw the tip forward and tap it to the cake to cut off the flow. A single perfect scallop. She had thought the weather was cool enough, but the house is too warm. She should have opened more windows. Her scallop droops and melts over the edge. She straightens the bag and begins again.

Another cake is done. It’s all Malina can do today. The bake sale would normally have taken place in a few short weeks but they changed the date because Elizabeth Symanski disappeared and now they know she is dead. Now the cakes will have to set another few weeks. Shame Malina didn’t think of that earlier.

Malina lays the icing bag on the table, unties the apron from around her waist, wipes her fingers on it, and tosses it on the dining room table. In the foyer, she slips off her sensible two-inch heels and steps into the white stilettos with the slender toes. They are more suited to the red-and-white dress she wears. Admiring the curve of her delicate ankle, she rolls her foot in a slow circle. First one and then the other. Her calves, so perfectly formed, haven’t changed in all these years. So lovely. Taking a deep breath that makes her chest lift up and her lungs fill, she grabs the ribbon that flows down her back and walks toward the side door.

Eventually the child will outgrow that carriage. Eventually it will walk down Willingham, doughy and soft like Mr. Herze. It will be a creamy brown color and will tuck its small fist in its mother’s dark-brown hand. Eventually it will be tall and walk with a gait like Mr. Herze, shoulders rounded, hump at the base of its neck, always seeming tired, worn-out. Eventually everyone will know.

Eventually, someone will begin to suspect Mr. Herze killed that woman. They’ll discover that the woman, before she died, spoke poorly of the child in the carriage, and Mr. Herze, like any man, would protect his own. It’s the only reason a good man would kill. But then, someone, eventually everyone, will tap their heads and purse their lips and think a wife would do the same. Mistakenly, accidentally, she would do the same. She would lash out with the only thing she had in hand if suddenly she realized her husband was father to another woman’s baby. And lastly, they’ll realize as they should have in the first place, that it was the mother. Wouldn’t the mother-the girl-kill to protect her child? Wouldn’t that be most likely of all? And the man who loves the mother-the girl-would protect her because he is good. He would bring home the hammer that did the killing and put it back as if that night, that terrible night, never happened.

A man who would do these things doesn’t covet the baby’s mother because she is thin and slight. He protects her and so he must love her. Nor does he covet the twins across the street who skip through sprinklers and trample lovely snapdragons. He watches those twins with a longing, missing the children he could never have with his wife. He watches those twins and imagines the day his child by another woman does the running and skipping and laughing. He loves the baby and he loves its mother. Eventually, someone, everyone, will know.

Within hours, the men will end their search, if not because the twins are found, then because they must rest and prepare to begin again tomorrow, and Mr. Herze will come home. The police will realize Mr. Herze and Malina saw the twins last. If Malina is wrong, and Mr. Herze looks upon the twins with a foul sort of longing, the police will discover it. They will wonder why Mr. Herze would make a gift of those flyers and they’ll discover the truth. Surely the police will discover it. If they don’t, Mr. Herze will in due course remarry. This new wife won’t tolerate a house tainted by Malina. This new wife will be thin and slight and she’ll insist they move north, where the yards stretch out and the homes are newly built. The twins will be safe because Malina is gone.

Letting the screen door slam shut behind her, Malina crosses the drive and walks into the garage, where she makes her way through the bags and boxes, sidestepping them, trying not to damage the dangling hems and cuffs. The last of the clothes are ready to be delivered to the thrift store. Clean and folded, properly mended. Someone will see to them. The key to Mr. Herze’s storage cabinet hangs on the pegboard inside a carefully drawn line right next to the hammer. Both of them, a perfect fit. Outside, voices shout-Izzy, Arie and Isabelle, Arabelle. Engines rattle to a start, screen doors slam shut, dogs bark at strangers in their yards. Surely, someone will see to all these clothes.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

James tried a few times to teach Grace. When they were first married, she practiced in the parking lot at St. Alban’s on a Saturday afternoon. He had placed her hands on the steering wheel and kept one of his own on it to guide her. “Like this,” he had said. The car sprung forward when Grace jammed her foot into the gas pedal. And when she pressed too hard on the brake, James fell, both hands reaching for the dash. He laughed, pulled Grace to him, and kissed her hard on the mouth. “Eyes forward and straight ahead.”

Father never taught Grace to drive because he died before she was old enough to learn. Several summers passed before she and Mother boarded the Ste. Claire again. Mother taught herself to drive during those years after Father died and took a job as a receptionist for Ford. In the summer of 1946, she pulled on a linen jacket and her best Sunday hat and said it was time to get on with it.

Grace had no urge to run ahead of the crowd that year and felt no tingle when her feet hit the wooden gangplank. She was one of the ladies now, tall as any other. Her waist was narrow, her neck slender, her frame strong and straight. As it had been every other year, she heard him before she saw him. The musicians paused and there was that burst of laughter. When the music began again, he spun past, another girl whose hair color Grace doesn’t remember in his arms. He had thinned out during his years away. Many of the men had that look, as if they had been forced to go without. He had noticed her and smiled. He remembers this smile but says it wasn’t the first. He says the first was when Grace was a child. That’s romance talking, not reason.

First she lowers the gearshift into reverse. Then she taps on the gas. The car lunges backward. Again, another tap. It rolls and jumps past the sidewalk and bounces off the edge of the curb. In the middle of the street, Grace pulls the gearshift down, and with her eyes forward and straight ahead, she rolls the steering wheel, one hand over the other like she has seen James do so many times.

The one won’t move out of the way. Grace knows this. Because she didn’t tell the police. Because he knows her as he does. Because he took Elizabeth and now the twins. Because she wouldn’t let Orin fire. Because he feels he belongs, the one won’t move. The others will, and they do. As Grace starts down Alder Avenue, stomping on the gas so the car gains speed, the other two scatter. One of them is probably the kinder man with the tired eyes. One dives to the left, one to the right, where Mr. Symanski stands. Only one stays his course, not moving from the middle of the road. He’s daring her, wanting to make a fool of her, wanting to prove she can’t change what has happened and that some part of him will always live inside her. She jams her toe to the floorboard. Had James been in the seat next to her, he would have braced himself. There is a loud thump. The silhouette flies up and away. It’s gone.

The car is still now. Inside, the air is warm and thin as if she has used it all up and there is nothing left. The only voices are muted but slowly they become louder. There is yelling, screaming. She lies across the seat, one hand on her baby, waiting. She closes her eyes.

One of the officers stares down on Julia, his shoulders square, his black shoes planted wide. Another stands behind her, a hand on her chair as if afraid she might try to run from the house. He has written down the name Maryanne in his small notebook. A third stands in the front room, occasionally speaking into a radio that crackles and hums. Grace must have closed the door as she left, because a burst of air blows through the house and out the kitchen window when someone opens it again. Small feet run across the linoleum entry into the kitchen. Julia lifts her head. The twins rush in, bringing with them the smell of outside-sweat-stained shirts, dirt under their nails, unwashed hair. They run to Julia, throwing their slender arms around her neck, smothering her with their warm bodies.

“Aunt Julia.”

She can’t tell which one is which because they’ve buried their faces in her hair. She wraps an arm around each. Bill stands behind them. He wears a white shirt buttoned at the collar and cuffs. He waits there, making sure they are well and then turns to leave.

“What did you do?” Julia says, the girls’ slender bodies pressed to her cheeks, one on either side.

An officer holds out a hand, signaling Julia should stay in her seat and Bill should not move.

“What did you do to them?” she says again.

The two girls back away from Julia. “He found us, Aunt Julia. Don’t be angry.”

“Your mother’s place,” Bill says, and then he faces the officer, talking to him and not Julia. “Few miles north on Woodward and east a couple blocks.”

“You’re lying,” Julia says, standing though the officer behind grabs her shoulder.

“No, Aunt Julia.”

One of the girls hangs from Julia’s wrist, but Julia yanks it away and the twin stumbles.

“It’s him,” Julia says, pushing back from the table and standing. Her chair topples. “Tell them, Bill. Tell them you killed Maryanne.”

“Mrs. Herze said we’d never find Patches,” one of the girls says. “She said our cat was dead and that we ruined her flowers. We didn’t. We didn’t ruin those flowers. We went to find Patches. We went to Grandma’s to put out our flyers. Mr. Herze made them. Every one exactly the same. But we didn’t know which street to take. We couldn’t find her house.”

“Tell me, Bill,” Julia shouts.

Hair hangs in the girls’ faces in stringy clumps because they never took that bath. One is crying. It must be Arie. The other has red cheeks and her fists are clenched. Izzy.

“Stop it, Aunt Julia.” It’s Izzy. Arie is crying too hard to speak. “Uncle Bill found us. He was there at Grandma’s. He knew he’d find us there.”

There are more officers in the kitchen now. Too many. It smells like vinegar and the black leather shoes they wear. The stiff soles click across the floor, probably will leave black scars. And those blue uniforms. They are too heavy in this heat. The officers sweat in them and their sour odors fill the house.

“I was glad,” Bill says.

He lifts his eyes to Julia.

“God help me, Julia, but that morning, when you found Maryanne. For an instant, I was relieved.”

Julia falls back into her chair.

“It exhausted me. All those nights. All that crying.” Bill turns from Julia to the officer at his right. Talking one man to another, he says, “I couldn’t stop myself, couldn’t stop feeling that way. God, for an instant, I was relieved.” He coughs into a closed fist. His voice breaks. “What man feels that? What father? What kind of a father feels such a thing?”

The curly-haired officer stands at Bill’s side. Outside, the shouts for Izzy and Arie have stopped. No more footsteps on the front porch. Upstairs, a door shuts and water begins to run. The twins are gone.

“I didn’t hurt her, Julia,” Bill says. “But I think it’s worse, what I did. What I felt, the relief, I think it’s worse.”

The officer with the brown hair pulls on his hat, tucks his pad of paper under one arm, and walks from the kitchen. Bill stands alone, his arms hanging heavy at his sides. His hair is matted and his neck is speckled with red spots where he’s scratched at bug bites.

“How did you know to find them there?” Julia asks, staring at the small chip in her red tabletop.

“Didn’t know for sure. Figured it was that damn cat of theirs.”

“I felt it too, Bill.”

“No, you didn’t. That’s a lie. Don’t you tell me that lie.”

Julia shakes her head. “I did. It was as if I hadn’t exhaled since she was born, and then I did. It was that quick. Every day, I think about the things I didn’t know, about the things I could have done to help her.”

He is crying now. Softly, like sometimes a man does. His eyes red and wet, his face streaked with the sheen.

“I’m no kind of father.”

“You’re as good a father as I was a mother.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is, Bill. We’re peas in a pod. No different.”

“I can’t do it again.”

Julia stands on her toes and wraps her arms around his neck. The night air is tinted with smoke. Fireworks or perhaps somewhere a neighbor is burning yard waste. The shirt Bill wears must be his brother’s. The soft cotton smells of a day drying on the clothesline. Outside, a crash rings out. There are shouts again and running feet. There is a loud pop, as if a car has backfired, and the police run from the house. Izzy and Arie appear at the bottom of the stairs, or maybe they’ve been there all along. And then Arie says, which is surprising because Julia would have thought Izzy would be the one to say it, “Sounded like a gunshot.”