Until She Comes Home

CHAPTER FIVE

It’s been one full day since Elizabeth disappeared. Grace stands at the kitchen window, both hands resting on her hard, round stomach, and looks onto the dark alley, hoping Elizabeth will shuffle out from behind the garage, her arms stiff at her sides, her head lowered. But there is no one. The night air is cool and motionless. Inside, the oven clicks and heats the house, filling it with the smell of apple-banana muffins. Grace gathers her hair on top of her head, twists it, pins it in place, and turns her face toward the small fan Mother placed in the open window. The fan rotates from side to side, drawing in the outside air, cooling Grace’s face and neck.

The neighborhood is quiet because after a full twenty-four hours, no one expects to find Elizabeth on Alder Avenue. The search has moved north and south, east and west. After the first night, James brought home maps of the city, and like he did on the back of an envelope, he drew boxes, numbered them, and wrote men’s names inside each. When Saturday morning broke, everyone piled in their cars and congregated at the church. James separated the men and told them where to go. All day, they searched. They walked along Woodward Avenue, stopping in every shop, store, or restaurant to ask if anyone had seen Elizabeth. They knocked on doors, asked neighbors to unlock sheds, and pressed their faces to the windows of parked cars. For now, no one is talking about who killed that woman on Willingham or if men will lose jobs for taking up with colored prostitutes. All is forgotten until Elizabeth comes home.

Grace spent the day at the church with the other ladies while the men searched. The ladies gathered in the basement and kept the coffee brewing and plenty of hot food at the ready. But at five o’clock, James took Grace home because her ankles and fingers had swelled and she was kneading her back with her fists. “No more,” he had said as he pulled into their driveway and left the car to idle. “You’ll stay home from now on, for the good of the baby.” He loves Grace, wants only to protect her and the baby they have dreamed of for five years. It’s all Grace has ever wanted-a man and a child to love. Now she has both. Maybe it’s too much. Maybe it’s more joy than one woman should have and that’s why this bad thing has come into their lives. “You and your mother stay with the phone,” James had said before leaving Grace and returning to the search. “Call the hospitals again. You never know.” And then he had held Grace’s face in his two hands, made her meet his eyes with hers, and said, “You have to stop blaming yourself. You know how she wanders. Don’t worry. I’ll find her.”

It’s well after dark when the ticking from the small timer over the stove begins to slow. It stops altogether and dings. Mother pulls a tray of muffins from the oven and sets them on the table. She’ll take them to the church in the morning. If Elizabeth is found tonight, and surely she will be, the muffins freeze well, so there’s no harm in making as many as they can manage.

“They’re dry,” Mother says, tapping the top of each muffin. “Told you those bananas weren’t ripe enough.” Her silver hair is pulled back as it always is for baking and she wears a loose gray duster. “I’ll have a new batch in the oven in no time.”

“Don’t throw them out,” Grace says. “We’ll need as many as we can bake.”

But even as Grace says it, Mother dumps the silver tray and a dozen muffins tumble into the trash can sitting near the back door.

“Put yourself to use,” Mother says, poking her fork at the overflowing garbage and then at the screen door. “Go on and take that out before it draws bugs.”

Grace gathers the trash can and pushes open the door. At her last appointment, Dr. Hirsh said her joints would start to loosen soon to make room for the baby. He warned her to take care she didn’t stumble into a nasty fall. The baby is growing heavier every day. She is especially heavy late in the afternoon and into the evening, so with her free hand Grace holds the metal railing and carefully makes her way down the three concrete stairs, testing each with her toe before stepping down with her full weight.

Any moment, news will come that Elizabeth has been found. Life will resume. Mother will return to her own house east of Woodward. James will fix the leak in the hot-water faucet upstairs, tighten the banister, trim the back bushes, so things will be just right before the baby arrives. Grace will wash all the diapers, blankets, and clothes the neighbor ladies have passed on. She will fold them, each one carefully, all the while talking to her baby girl, telling her about her new room; her strong, handsome daddy; the patch of green grass in the backyard where she will hopefully play next spring in the shade of the maple tree. Though James is rooting for a boy, because every husband does, Grace knows she is carrying a little girl, has known it from the first flutter, and once James sees the tiny face, he will love his baby girl as he loves his wife.

Outside, all up and down Alder, the houses, though empty because everyone has joined the search, are lighted up in hopes Elizabeth will find her way home. Rounding the back of the house, Grace listens for the deep voices she sometimes hears late at night. As she nears the garage, the light from the kitchen throwing a dim glow into the alley, she sees their glass. There’s more every day. Tomorrow, Grace will pick it all up and not tell James. She jerks her head left, thinking that was the sound of gravel being crushed by a heavy foot, and then right, thinking something or someone has rattled a doorknob.

Bracing the trash can against one hip, Grace backs toward the garage. The porch lights throw odd shadows, some long and thin that stretch across the ground, others round and broad that crouch at the alley’s edge. Only when she notices the Williamsons’ house does she exhale and realize she had been holding her breath. A light shines in Mrs. Williamson’s kitchen window and in an upstairs bedroom, where Mr. Williamson listens to his ball games. Not everyone has gone to the church. Some of the older folks have stayed behind. Those are probably the sounds of Mrs. Williamson fussing about in her cabinets or washing the supper dishes. On such a lovely evening, she would have left her windows open and noise does have a peculiar way of traveling among the tightly knit houses. But there is that sound again-tiny bits of gravel crushed under a heavy foot.

At the church, the ladies have had all day to realize that Julia folds a sloppy linen and dishes out servings that are too large. By day’s end, they are weary of cleaning up after her and so put her in charge of the coffee. The search will soon end for the night, and when the men return, they’ll want something hot and fresh. The job is really quite important, the ladies say. You are the best cook among us, no question about that, and you brought so much food. More than your share. Let us take care of the serving. So while Julia sees to the coffee by readying two percolators, fetching the cream, and scrounging up silver tongs to accompany the box of sugar cubes, the rest of the ladies tend to a table crowded with covered casserole dishes and foil-wrapped trays. Mr. Symanski is the only man among them. He sits on a wooden chair near the kitchen, his back rigid, his feet resting on the ground.

At the bottom of the narrow stairwell leading into the basement, the first of the men appears. They were instructed to quit by ten o’clock. The police insisted. No one wants those men roaming the streets any later and giving the police more to contend with. After last night’s search, everyone agreed there was no sense looking on Alder anymore. The men, at least two to a car, were to roll through the nearby streets and call out for Elizabeth. She doesn’t like to be left alone and she doesn’t like the dark so she’ll stay near the houses with brightly lit porches. Call out that Ewa wants her to come home. She’ll believe it even though Ewa is dead.

After the first man appears, another follows and then another. Under the white lights, their skin looks gray. The ladies hurry toward the men, arms extended, and usher them to the food. The first night of the search, which went on until morning, the men had looked tired, their eyes red from squinting in the darkness, but they had all agreed daylight would bring more success. Tonight, as more men duck under the low-hanging threshold and congregate at the food table, the overhead lights throwing heavy shadows on their faces, their backs are rounded and they shake their heads from side to side. Their hope has faded.

The men stand in small groups that grow as more searchers file down the stairs and, slowly, some of the ladies abandon their serving duties and join the men. A few of the ladies suggest the bake sale be postponed, but Malina Herze says it’s too early to consider such a thing and reminds the ladies to keep those donations to the thrift store coming. Each time a new man walks down the stairs, every head turns as if the searchers and their wives are expecting some news. Arthur Jacobson, who lives well north of Alder now but still comes to Sunday services at St. Alban’s, is one of the last to walk into the basement. With hat in hand, he gestures toward the narrow windows that open out onto the parking lot above.

James Richardson and a few other men stand in the parking lot with two police officers. A streetlight shines, its yellow glow penning in the group. Even from this distance, Julia can see that James is tiring. His head hangs and he kneads his forehead with the palm of one hand. He doesn’t only have the search to cause him worry, but he must also worry after Grace and their baby. As one of the officers reaches out to show something to the group, James and the others lean in. After a few moments, they stand back, almost in tandem, and shake their heads.

A few more words are exchanged and the group breaks up, the officers walking to their patrol car while James and the other men drift toward the church entrance. The group inside the basement breaks up too. Julia returns to her coffee, where she busies herself by straightening and counting the cups and saucers. Twenty-three won’t be enough. The room where they usually hold wedding receptions and celebrations of first communion is almost full. Resting her fingertips on the table’s edge, Julia says hello to Harry Bigsby, the only man to come for coffee. She slides a cup and saucer toward him and offers him cream.

“May I get you a plate, Harry?” she says, taking his corduroy cap and brushing lint from its brim before handing it back.

“Doesn’t look good,” he says, shaking off Julia’s offer. He dips his head in thanks and walks toward the center of the room.

James Richardson is the next to walk down the stairs. He removes his hat, pushes his fingers through his dark hair, and shakes his head. “Seems we’re done for the night,” he says.

Julia pulls her sweater closed. It’s her loosest cardigan and yet it’s too tight.

“Any of you ladies familiar with Elizabeth’s belongings?” James asks. “Familiar enough you might recognize a shoe?”

The room is silent, but unlike Julia, the others aren’t surprised. They shake their heads because this must be the news they were waiting for, the sign things would not end well for Elizabeth. Behind James and the other men who had been talking with the officers, Bill ducks under the threshold and stands, hat dangling from one hand. He nods in Julia’s direction to reassure her the twins are fine. After spending most of the morning with Julia, the girls had begged to go back home and promised to lock the doors and windows and pull closed the drapes. Bill, in turn, promised to check on them when he was out.

“Julia?” James says, searching the room until his eyes settle on her. “You think you would know Elizabeth’s things?” He is asking because everyone knows Julia was the last to see Elizabeth.

“I’m afraid not, James,” she says. “I suppose Grace best knows Elizabeth.” All around the room, people are staring at Julia. Some lower their eyes. Others look at her with wilted lids. “Or Charles. Won’t you know, Charles?”

“Found a shoe,” James says. “A few of the fellows did. They found it near Chamberlin and Willingham. Near the river. From what I saw, it’s white. Soft-soled. Small, that’s for sure. Not too beat-up. Doesn’t appear it’s been there long. Could belong to anyone, though. Just a shoe. But they say Elizabeth knew that street. Say she used to shop there with Ewa. Think she could have found her way down there and maybe it’s her shoe.”

Someone has handed Mr. Symanski a drink. He doesn’t look up from the sweaty glass he clutches between two hands. Before Ewa died, Elizabeth rode the bus with her mother. She learned to pick out tomatoes that weren’t too soft and bananas that were bright yellow and firm.

“Ask Grace, she’ll know,” Julia says again, hoping she repeats it because it’s true and not because she wants to remind people Grace saw Elizabeth that afternoon too.

“Police’ll see to it,” James says, pulls on his hat and disappears up the staircase that will lead him back to the parking lot and home to Grace.

Julia crosses the room, rests one hand on the back of Mr. Symanski’s chair, and squats at his side. “I’m so sorry, Charles,” she says, and manages a smile. “It doesn’t have to mean something bad. We have plenty of reason for hope.” She squeezes his arm, which is much thinner than she would have expected. “Let me get you a bite to eat. Something sweet to keep your strength up? I brought my rhubarb pie. No one beats my rhubarb pie. You know that’s true enough.”

“Everyone is doing much for my Elizabeth. They are caring very much for her, yes?”

“I saw her last,” Julia says, tugging again at her boxy cardigan.

“The police are telling me this.” Mr. Symanski brushes one hand across Julia’s hair and smiles as if Ewa’s hair must have once been red too, and he is remembering it fondly. “But there is being no need for what you are trying to say.”

“I should have watched her more closely.”

“You are always being good to my Elizabeth.” Beads of water from the cool glass drip onto his blue trousers. “These others are being unkind to you, yes? They are blaming you?”

“They’re troubled, is all,” Julia says. “We’re all troubled.”

While the men continue to eat their fried chicken and thick slices of Bundt cake, the ladies begin to pack up their dishes. They dash this way and that, their skirts fluttering about their calves, their heels in basic black and tan clicking across the gray-and-white speckled tile. Dishes and glassware knock against each other; spoons tap the rims of coffee cups. The ladies iron out their used sheets of aluminum foil, fold them, save them for another day. Perhaps tomorrow, when they gather again. Everyone is worrying Elizabeth may have drowned in the river. As sad as it is to consider, that’s what they are thinking. And because they fade away when Julia passes among them, it’s also clear they are wondering how Julia will ever live with what she has done. After all that Julia has already been through, how ever will she manage the strain?

CHAPTER SIX

While the adults spent the day at the church, Arie and Izzy stayed inside like they promised. Mostly they stayed in their room and looked out the window onto Alder Avenue, hoping to see something, anything. Down on Woodward, the hum of traffic built as the day wore on, and the faster the traffic soared by and the more cars that piled up, the louder the hum became and the more Arie and Izzy felt themselves left behind. When, after an entire afternoon, they saw nothing down on Alder except a few cars and one stray dog, they gave up on the window and plugged in their record player. Sitting like a small black suitcase on the end of Izzy’s bed, it had been waiting for the girls when they first arrived at Aunt Julia’s house. A gift for both of them. Propped up next to the small case had been a Tune Tote carrier filled with 45s. All afternoon, Arie spun those records, always especially careful when she lifted the needle at the end of a song so as to not scratch the vinyl. She wanted the music to last. Not that she really cared much for the records. None of her favorites were inside the pink carrying case anyway. It was mostly full of Peggy Lee and Frank Sinatra. What Arie did care about was making Izzy happy again so she didn’t do anything to cross Uncle Bill and Aunt Julia.

Song after song, Arie rolled the small knob on the record player, making the music louder and louder so Izzy would dance and spin and stop thinking about Elizabeth and their lost cat. Izzy had been sulking ever since Uncle Bill made them cross their hearts and swear to stay inside and not go searching. But listening to records, no matter how loudly, did not make Izzy forget and they did not make her happy, and what Arie feared all day finally happened after Uncle Bill checked in for the last time. He said he and Aunt Julia would be back home in an hour or so and that Izzy and Arie should behave until then. Even before Uncle Bill was out the door, Arie knew Izzy had a plan.

“Who’ll ever know?” Izzy says. “It’s dark now. No one’ll see us and we’ll be back long before Uncle Bill and Aunt Julia come home. We’ll look for Elizabeth, but we might find Patches, too. Happens all the time. Animals follow their people all the way across the country, so why not to the other side of Woodward? Street’s so quiet, we just might find them both.”

Arie agrees only when Izzy threatens to go with or without her. Together, they slip on their sneakers in case they have to do some running and decide to leave the house through the kitchen door. Less noticeable than the front. Arie goes first and Izzy follows, letting the screen slap shut. Arie scolds her with a shake of her head, but before she can follow up with a reminder to be quiet, Izzy yanks her down the stairs. They run across the backyard, brightly lit because Aunt Julia made sure both the front and back porch lights were switched on and that both bulbs were fresh. She didn’t want one burning out when they were most needed. They run until they reach the shadows thrown by Uncle Bill’s garage, Izzy dragging Arie all the way, and once there, they flatten themselves against the rough siding. Both breathe deeply. Their chests pound up and down, not so much from the long run, because it wasn’t so long, but because sneaking outside and running into the dark and listening for any sound at all on the empty street and hearing not one thing are all scary enough to make every breath hard to find.

“I’m not going on the street,” Arie whispers, one hand pressed to her chest to slow her heart. “Someone’s sure to see us out there.”

The garage scratches their bare shoulders and arms. They should have thought to put on long sleeves. The air is always cooler when the sun sets, so they should have known. Arie shivers, partly because of the cold but mostly because of the dark.

“Then I’ll search the street by myself.” Izzy talks a little too loudly, as if trying to fool herself and Arie into believing there is nothing to fear. “You check the alley,” she says, and begins to slide her feet, one after the other, toward the far end of the garage. “Nobody’ll see you back there. Be sure you kick all the bushes. We’ll meet here in fifteen minutes.”

Arie waves at Izzy to come back. She wants to ask what will happen if she kicks a bush and accidentally kicks Elizabeth or their cat or something else entirely. But before Arie can ask, Izzy has disappeared around the side of Aunt Julia’s house. Another question Arie should have asked is how are they to know when fifteen minutes is up. Neither of them wears a watch, so how are they to know? One thing she is certain of-she won’t be kicking anything. She’ll walk to the end of the next block and back again. That’s not so far, and when she returns long before Izzy, Arie will lie and say she only just got back too.

Stepping into the alley, Arie immediately drifts toward the middle. Even though the edges are more brightly lit, something or someone could hide along the edges. The center feels safer, like whatever might be hiding would have to jump out at her, giving her time to run for home. She continues walking, letting her eyes roll from left to right and, every few yards, checks behind her. It used to be, on a night like this, Arie would watch the dark sky for hours, hoping for a glimpse of that Russian rocket. She imagined it would look like a bolt of lightning, shooting from one end of the sky to the other. She stopped watching and stopped hoping the dog inside was alive when her teacher said the ship had fallen back to Earth. She forgets sometimes, on a night like tonight when the sky is especially dark, and still looks up, hoping to see that bright light.

When she reaches the Obermires’ house, she stops walking. They don’t have a garage, and Arie can see between the houses all the way to the street. No sign of Izzy. She takes a few more steps, keeping her eyes on the space between the houses as long as she can. She’s going to watch the street until she can’t see it anymore and then she’s going to run as fast as she can all the way to the end of the next block. It doesn’t matter how tired she gets or how much her feet burn or her lungs ache. She won’t stop running until she’s standing back at Uncle Bill’s garage. Buckling up her fists, she dips her head, takes three long strides, and stops.

He must have stepped out of the shadows hanging over the Richardsons’ garage and into the center of the alley because Arie would have seen him if he’d been there all along. He’s only a house and a half away. She would have seen him. She backs up a few feet and stops again when he lifts a hand. He holds it out like a stop sign and leans as if he’s talking to someone inside the garage. He straightens. He’s a solid shadow with arms and legs. He waves a hand like he’s swatting away a bug. He means for her to slip over to the side of the alley. He means for her to hide. He leans again, straightens again, and this time, touches a finger to his lips to silence her.

Grandma would call this prairie grass. No one must mow back here. Mrs. Schofield died and Mr. Schofield doesn’t care about the overgrown grass. Arie parts the tall stalks and pushes her way through, wishing again she’d changed into slacks and long sleeves. She slides down the side of the garage and squats there. Her breath is too loud. It rushes down into her lungs and back up again. She cups one hand over her mouth and wraps the other around her knees. The garage digs into the knobs of her backbone.

The man who was a shadow stands at the Richardsons’ garage. Mrs. Richardson is Aunt Julia’s best friend. Her blond hair is almost white and always smooth no matter what the weather is like, and in a few months, she’s going to have a baby. Izzy and Arie both agree: if they could look like someone, anyone, they would look like Mrs. Richardson. The man leans into the garage again, tilts his head in Arie’s direction, and when he straightens, two more men walk out. One of them is the same size as the man who waved Arie away, and the third is taller-taller even than Uncle Bill.

When the men have taken a few steps in Arie’s direction, she tucks her head and hides her eyes. Air races through her body, much too loudly, so loudly they’ll hear her. Count to twenty. Count to twenty and they’ll be gone. But the counting makes her dizzy. She holds her breath. Gravel crunches and tiny rocks bounce across the hard dirt path as they’re kicked about. The footsteps stop. Arie lifts her eyes. The group stands a few feet beyond her hiding place. One of them, the largest, stoops and picks up something from the ground near his feet. The other two walk on down the alley while the largest rears back and throws. Glass shatters and the three men take off running.

Izzy will be back soon. After fifteen minutes, she’ll come back and she’ll press herself against Uncle Bill’s garage where they started out, where she’ll be hidden from the men. Arie tries to count again, but her hot breath and the garage digging into her back and the stalks poking and scratching her arms make her want to cry and she can’t count when she’s crying. Somewhere close by, a door opens and heavy boots hit a wooden porch. Arie cups both hands over her mouth.

At the far end of the alley, where it meets up with Woodward, the men run around the corner. They’re gone. Arie unfolds her legs, rubs her hands over the scratches on her arms, and lifts one foot and then the next up and over the tall grass. Inside the Richardsons’ garage, something bangs about, not loudly, but quietly, as if someone is trying not to bang about at all. There is a thin, soft groan. Someone standing. Arie backs away from Mrs. Richardson’s garage, swings around, and runs for home.

Most on the block are not yet home from the church. Malina would have normally stayed until the last dish was washed and packed and the tables folded and stowed in the storage closet, but when Mr. Herze said he’d be making a final run through a neighborhood north of Alder and that one of the men would drop him at the house, Malina had said she’d be happy to drive the car home. She had taken the keys, smiled, and only then noticed how closely Mr. Herze watched her.

“You’re not concerned about the glare?” he had asked.

“How can I be concerned with my own fears when our poor Elizabeth has yet to be found?”

Mr. Herze had stared down on her for so long that the ladies standing nearby drifted away. When finally he left with the other men, Malina excused herself, trusting the rest of the ladies to do the cleaning.

She drops her keys and the large brown handbag on the entry table. The house is dark. Leaning to peek outside, she sees one of those twins running up the street toward Julia Wagner’s house. It’s the first Malina has seen of either one of them this summer. She leans out the door, looking for the other one and thinking she might scold them for running about at this inappropriate hour, but she hasn’t time for such matters.

Checking the street one last time and seeing no sign of Mr. Herze, Malina closes the door and opens her handbag. It was a terrible embarrassment to be carrying this monstrosity at the church, being out-of-season as it is, but she had needed the large bag again if she was going to tend to the things that needed tending. Now she’ll hurry up about it before Mr. Herze comes home. From the bottom of the handbag, she pulls out the hammer she purchased from Simpson’s Hardware earlier in the day to replace the one she dropped down on Willingham.

Making her way across the driveway and toward Mr. Herze’s garage, Malina holds the hammer with both hands, and as she walks she tests the weight and feel of it. Much like the other hammer, as best she can remember. At the sound of a car engine, she stops and listens, but the engine continues on past her house and fades as the car drives down Alder. Not Mr. Herze. If she had the time, Malina would count to twenty to try to slow her heart and quiet the tension that has settled in her neck and shoulders. The nerves have traveled as far as her stomach tonight, and she might need to chew a sliver of ginger root before slipping into bed. Dr. Cannon says there’s always time for a few deep breaths, but he’s wrong. There’s never time for counting and breathing when a lady is truly in need.

Inside the garage, Malina tiptoes through the boxes and bags scattered about the floor, all of them donations for the thrift store that the other ladies have dropped off with her to be sorted and delivered, and once she reaches the center of the room, she stretches overhead and tugs on a small chain. She squints in the sudden brightness. The breeze that followed her through the door stirs up the single bulb that dangles from the ceiling and light rolls around the small room, aggravating her already-queasy stomach. The thin silver chain swings from side to side and eventually hangs motionless.

There is always a certain smell in the garage, like sawdust, though Mr. Herze rarely runs a saw, particularly in the summer. He prefers to tackle his projects in the autumn and early spring. But some odors are like that-always sticking to things and making a nuisance of themselves no matter how many weeks or months have passed.

In Malina’s hand, this new hammer’s wooden handle is smooth. She can’t remember if the other one, the one she dropped in that dark alley, was also smooth. And wasn’t the other handle red? But the hardware store hadn’t had a red-handled hammer. Only this brown-handled one. It isn’t as if she regularly touches Mr. Herze’s tools, but she is quite certain the head of the hammer she carried down the factory’s alley was forked on one side. She is quite certain of that. How much more could matter about a hammer?

Edging toward the wooden slab that Mr. Herze uses as a work surface for his gluing and sanding, Malina reaches out with both hands and gently lays the new hammer in two metal hooks hanging from a pegboard. The board is a result of careless neighbors. So many times Mr. Herze has loaned out a tool only to find it missing when he later discovered a need for it. By that time, he often forgot to whom he had loaned the tool. Now, with one glance at the black outlines on his pegboard, he can know which tool is not in its proper place and he no longer forgets. The rest of his equipment-fishing rods, a shotgun handed down from his father, a black pistol, filet knives, and an ax or two are locked up in a cabinet alongside the pegboard because Mr. Herze must worry the neighbors will make off with those things too. Oddly, not as many neighbors ask to borrow tools anymore.

The night she took the hammer and dropped it in her handbag, she had briefly, only for a moment, considered unlocking the cabinet and taking the black pistol for her protection. A gun, however, would require a certain degree of skill, and she didn’t begin to know about bullets and triggers and such. Mr. Herze once mentioned he kept the weapon loaded. In an emergency, a man wouldn’t want to be fooling around with boxes of ammunition that might spill or, worse yet, be misplaced. But Malina had no way of knowing for sure if it was loaded or not, so she had settled on the hammer.

Tilting her head first to the right and then to the left, Malina reaches out with one finger and adjusts the hammer upward a quarter inch until it slips inside the black outline. Even with this adjustment, the head of the new hammer is much smaller than the head of the hammer she lost, and the outline no longer fits.

If it weren’t for Mr. Herze’s sudden questions about her nightly driving habits, Malina wouldn’t have concerned herself so with the hammer she lost in that alley. But eventually, Mr. Herze will make his way into the garage and will notice his missing hammer with only a glance. First, he will ask Malina if she has seen the tool. Next, he’ll stomp from neighbor to neighbor, accusing them along the way. He does so hate it when people borrow his things. Eventually, he’ll think it odd his hammer disappeared so mysteriously, and he’ll give thought to something he might otherwise dismiss.

If someone has told Mr. Herze that Malina was driving that night, perhaps the same person will tell him she carried with her a red-handled hammer. It would do no good for Mr. Herze to learn Malina was at the factory. He has never tolerated a wife who asked questions or poked about in his business. Malina learned this in the early years. And for all the years that followed, she’s remembered. If only she had gone back for the hammer or, better yet, if only she hadn’t worried so about an empty driveway and a ruined supper. If only she had gone back, there would be no proof. If only she had gone back, she would have no need for red-handled or brown-handled hammers or any type of hammer. If only she had gone back, Mr. Herze would never know for certain she had been on Willingham. He’d never know for certain she lied.

At the garage, Grace had set aside the garbage can and reached down to grab the heavy wooden door’s handle. Taking out the garbage had definitely been a sign the evening was drawing to a close. James would come home soon enough and they would go to sleep for the second night knowing Elizabeth was not yet home. With both hands wrapped firmly around the small metal handle, Grace gave a good yank, slipped her hands under the door’s bottom edge, and shoved it overhead. It was harder for her now that the baby had grown so large.

Inside, the garage was dark. James’s car was parked in its usual spot. Howard Wallace drove him to the church, or was it Al Thompson? James had his maps to study and his notes to make. The others wanted him thinking and planning, not driving. Two silver garbage cans stood next to the car in their usual spot. She dropped a tissue over the handle of the first trash can so as to not soil her fingers. That can was full, so she dropped the silver lid, and as she lifted the second, a tissue still protecting her from the grimy handle, a hand slapped over her face.

The hand was bare, hard, and cold. The large palm and thick fingers covered her nose and mouth, cutting off her air. She threw her head from side to side, forward and back. A body, wide and tall, forced her, stumbling, tripping, deeper inside the garage. Her lungs burned. She reached for the hand, scratching at it, tearing at it, and then someone standing in front of her grabbed her wrists.

“Shhhh, now,” a deep voice whispered. His breath warmed her cheeks and eyes. The words rattled as if they burned the man’s throat.

The one behind slid his hand over her mouth. She sucked air through her nose. Their scent was sour. The man who stood in front had a small beard on the tip of his chin. He was tall, taller even than James. The man drew three fingers over the beard, drawing them to a point. He set a green bottle on the trunk of James’s car. Green glass like Julia finds behind her house, like James and Grace find behind their house. He looked at Grace’s belly. Smiled, laughed maybe. Holding her by the wrists, he swung them from side to side like they were children singing on a playground.

“Good girls are quiet,” he said.

The one behind took her arms, crushed her wrists in one hand, and covered her mouth again with the other. He pulled her arms back, grinding his body against hers. Her shoulders burned.

The smiling one in front touched his chin, pet the small tuft growing there. A third said, “Jesus Christ,” and turned his face away because Grace’s stomach rose up at them as she arched her back. The one behind scrubbed his cheek against hers, like gritty sandpaper. One hand touched her stomach and then another. One slipped under the hem of the blouse that floated over her baby. She tasted his stale breath. The hand pulled on the elastic panel that stretched more every week. The hand was cool and wet on her skin. It lay there, not moving.

“Jesus damn.” This man couldn’t watch. He had tired eyes. He blinked slowly, shook his head, and disappeared.

The one behind yanked her head until she was staring into the dark rafters. Overhead, shadows folded in on themselves. That same hand slid off her mouth, pulled down over her throat, and pinched tightly so that for another moment she couldn’t inhale. It was a warning of what he could do, and then he reached through the neckline of her blouse. Mother hand-stitched the lace there. When the hand couldn’t fit, it pulled at the seam, tearing it open, tearing the lace. Jagged nails snagged her blouse. Rough, callused fingers touched her skin. Her breasts were heavier than before, heavier every day, and Mother said that meant the baby would come early. She said Grace would need to bind herself after the birth because her breasts would fill with milk and they wouldn’t have need for it.

Falling backward, Grace’s arms flew up and she landed on her tailbone. Two hands pushed her to the ground, pinned her wrists. The darkness settled in around her. From somewhere above her, she heard their voices. Two of them. One talked of the newspaper and wondered if they would write about Grace. Would anyone care to print an article that told of what happened to her? Would the police ever come? Would they act as if it never took place? They knew that colored woman on Willingham. At the very least, knew of her, the dead woman no one talked about since Elizabeth disappeared. The dead woman who was never written about in the newspaper. The dead woman whom the police dismissed with a few questions over coffee and cigarettes. These men, this man, knew about her, and this was what he’d do to set things right.

One of them pressed Grace’s face away, forcing her cheek into the ground. She stared into the side of one of James’s tires. The green bottle fell off the car, shattered on the garage floor. One entered her. This was what became of Elizabeth. The breathing came from behind her, above her, all around her. This was what Elizabeth last heard. He was on top of Grace, his hands planted on either side, thick cords and dark wiry hair running up his forearms. This was what Elizabeth last saw. Grace stared at the black tread. James had once shown her how to stick a penny in a tire and check that the tread was safe. She had laughed because she never did learn to drive. When they sell this house and move away because no one wants to be the last to get out, James says he’ll try again to teach her.

“Jesus damn,” one said from somewhere far away.

This was what happened to Elizabeth. They must have started with her and this was how they’d set things right.

And then it is quiet.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Inside the empty garage, Grace’s skin cools. The men are gone. Somewhere down the street, glass breaks. Then silence. She inhales, exhales-only the sound of her own breath. Next to James’s car, green glass sparkles where the moonlight hits it. His car doesn’t have the sharp angles or sparkling chrome of some of the newer models. Its back end is rounded; its nose, short and blunt. Rolling onto her side, she pulls up her knees as high as her belly will allow and gathers the front of her blouse. Mother’s lace hangs in shredded pieces. Grace places her other hand on her baby. The doctor said she would drop in another month or so and begin to position herself for birth.

Piecing her blouse together, Grace pushes herself off the ground. The kitchen trash can lies on its side. The dry muffins are scattered across the dirt floor. A few have rolled under James’s car. A few more have been trampled, mashed into the ground. Clutching Mother’s ruined lace in one hand, Grace uses the other to pick up the muffins, even the few that are no more than crumbs, and empties the trash in the second silver garbage can.

Outside the garage, the alley is empty and dark as if the men were never there. Beyond the house, the lights from the street make her blink. She closes her eyes, breathes in through her nose and out through her mouth. Sulfur hangs in the air. She heard them earlier in the evening, fireworks crackling a few blocks over. They start earlier every year, kids and their firecrackers. Every July 4, she and James board the Ste. Claire at the foot of Woodward and travel down the Detroit River. It’s where they first met. This summer, because of the baby, James says they might need to skip a year.

She was ten that Fourth of July; James, eighteen. He says he remembers her, even as a child. That’s romance, and not reason, talking. Grace had stood among the adults and other fidgeting children, the wooden gangplank underfoot, and for a time, thought only of the cold river water below. Those are her first memories of the Ste. Claire-the tingle in her stomach when her feet hit the hollow wooden planks, the fear of plunging into the cold water below, and the sharp, sweet smell of sulfur. The ship’s horn soon followed, a deep blast. Mother said, because she said the same every year, that it was a sorrowful sound and this was no time for sorrow.

Because she was ten, Grace was too old to run ahead of her parents. In years past, she would leave Mother’s side and weave in and out of the other passengers to reach the front of the line. Being one of the first on the ship meant the brass railing leading to the upper deck would be untouched, unblemished, and the mahogany woodwork would shine. But it was high time Grace behave like a lady, and being a lady meant she wouldn’t be one of the first aboard. All the hands of the passengers who came before her would ruin that perfect shine. The year she was ten, she stood in line, hopping from one foot to the other, one gloved hand tucked inside Mother’s, already sorry for what she would see when she stepped aboard.

The ladies, all ages, who waited alongside Grace stood a little taller that year, as if preparing for something. Mother said the whole country was bracing itself and had good reason to shore up its footing. Grace didn’t know what that meant or why the country needed a sound foothold, but the spirit of those ladies with their full sleeves and cinched waists and hair that hung loosely over one eye and down their backs lifted her up. She walked with her shoulders back and her head high and wished her dress weren’t one sewn for a child.

The men who boarded the Ste. Claire, that year and every other year, wore suits because when the sun set, a band would play on the upper deck. As the engines churned and the music throbbed, the gentlemen would wrap their arms around the ladies’ tiny bound waists and spin them across a dance floor polished with cornmeal. This was where Grace first saw James, his right hand cradling the small of a young woman’s back and his left hand wrapped around hers. Their feet floated across the glossy floor, and with each spin, he pulled her closer. He was tall, taller than every girl wearing her best heels, and his shoulders were broad and full and one dark curl fell across his forehead, tossed out of place by the spinning and twirling.

As he danced, James had laughed easily with the girl he held in his arms, perhaps too easily. He laughed as if she were a sister, and each time he did, the girl’s frown deepened. Grace noticed him because of the easy laugh. She always covered her mouth when she laughed. But he laid his head back and opened his mouth wide, not afraid of who might hear or who might see. She felt certain he would be a kind man, and this kindness is what she would most remember in the years to come. In the end, the girl with a hemline that floated scarcely beneath her knees and yellow hair that glowed under the overhead lights crossed her arms over her chest and flipped that yellow hair when she stomped away to find another partner. Grace had been happy to watch her go.

From somewhere north of Alder, more fireworks crackle. One shoe is gone, so she walks toward the house with an awkward gait. Step, pause. Step, pause. At the back door, she makes her way carefully up the stairs because she holds the trash can in one hand and her tattered blouse in the other. She has no free hand to hold the railing. Careful, now, the doctor had said. You don’t want to take a nasty fall.

In the kitchen, the fan still sweeps from side to side, wobbling on its stand. The oven timer beeps in a steady rhythm. Clutching her blouse in two fists, Grace sits at the table, both feet flat on the floor. She stares straight ahead at the clock over the stove. She waits to feel the familiar rumbling that means her baby girl is stretching and rolling. The fan sprays gusts of air that blow loose bits of hair across her face.

“Good Lord in heaven,” Mother says, wiping her hands on a towel as she walks into the kitchen.

Mother has already wrapped a scarf around her hair and removed her makeup for bed. She still wears her gray duster but has changed into her felt slippers. With all that’s going on, she’ll spend the night. James insisted.

“See to those muffins before they burn,” Mother says.

And then she sees Grace.

Walking around the table, her duster’s full skirt fluttering about her, Mother keeps her distance. She picks up the trash can Grace set inside the door and puts it under the sink. She silences the timer and pulls the muffins from the oven.

“Mother?”

“Come with me, child,” Mother says, holding Grace’s forearm with one hand and cupping her elbow with the other.

They walk up the stairs and into the bathroom. Grace undresses because Mother tells her to and waits while Mother runs the hot water. Soon, the tub is full and Mother leads Grace to it, holds her by the arm as she lifts one foot and then the other over the edge. Grace lowers herself, pressing one hand to the tiled wall and keeping a strong hold of Mother’s arm with the other. The warm water chokes her. She coughs into a closed fist, feels as if she might vomit. Mother rests a hand on Grace’s shoulder until the nausea passes and then hands her a bar of soap.

“Go on and clean yourself,” Mother says.

Grace’s arms float at her sides, her belly rising up between them. Mother wraps Grace’s fingers around the soap and begins to pull the gold pins from her hair. One at a time, Mother drops them on the side of the tub. A few slip over the rounded edge and fall silently to the floor where they catch in the beige bathmat. When every pin is out, Mother brushes Grace’s hair until it is smooth and pins it up again using the same pins.

“I feel the baby,” Mother says, resting one hand on Grace’s stomach, where it rises out of the warm water. The one spot that is cool. “She’s moving fine. Kicking. Do you see? Kicking hard and strong.”

Grace slides both hands over her belly. It’s hard like a shell, and after a moment of stillness, the baby shifts. Relief is the thing that makes her cry. When she first married James, the other husbands winked and slapped him on the back. Need only brush up against one this young. You’ll have yourself a son in no time. But it didn’t happen. For so many years, it didn’t happen. Grace prayed every night for a baby, lit candles at St. Alban’s, slept with a scrap of red ribbon under her pillow. She wanted a baby beyond all else, not only for herself but also for James. It will happen, James said when she cried. It will happen.

Mother helps Grace into her white cotton nightgown and into her bedroom and into her bed. She pulls up the sheet to Grace’s chin and folds back the top blanket. This is what Mother did when Grace was a child. In the window, the white sheers flutter. A breeze brushes across Grace’s face.

“I’ll tell him you’re feeling poorly, that you have a fever. I’ll tell him to sleep on the sofa.”

Grace rolls on her side and lays a hand on the baby. Another nudge from inside. “Elizabeth?” she asks.

Mother tilts her head. “Nothing. I’ve heard nothing.”

Grace wants to ask Mother if anyone searched the Symanskis’ garage even though she knows they did. She knows James looked there and others, too.

“The twins,” she says, pushing herself into a sitting position with one hand while keeping the other on the baby. “Julia left them at home tonight. She said they were old enough. She thinks they’re safe.”

“I’ll see to them,” Mother says, waving at Grace to lie back and then pulling the curtains closed, cutting off the breeze. “You stay. Rest. Hardly a mark on you. You’ll be well in the morning.”

A flick. The door closes. The room goes dark. The air is still. In the bathroom, the water drains from the tub and Mother shuffles about, probably collecting Grace’s clothes. She’ll throw them away, won’t bother to mend them.

The door opens again and light from the hallway spills into the room. Grace’s eyelids flutter.

“Did you see the color of him?” Mother asks.

Grace nods or perhaps she only blinks.

“No man wants to know this about his wife,” Mother says. “He can’t live with it. Do yourself this favor. No man wants to know.”

Surely this is what became of Elizabeth Symanski. Surely this is what she suffered.

The door closes again, and the room falls dark.

For tonight, the search is over. Outside Julia’s dining-room window, the block is mostly quiet except for the steady buzz of insects, cicadas though it’s early for them to be out. One by one, bedroom lights switch off up and down Alder Avenue, though every porch light still shines. Nearby, a baby cries. That will be Betty Lawson’s little one, her cries carrying through the open window in her nursery. Upstairs, Bill and the twins sleep. Nothing should wake them. No more slamming doors, no more cars rolling down the street. The pie plates have been washed and dried. The unused rhubarb has been wrapped in aluminum foil and stored in the refrigerator. Julia promised the twins a pie of their own tomorrow. She’ll have to get up early to roll out the crust before she goes back to the church. The twins will be able to do the rest.

Through the dining-room window, Julia watches for Betty Lawson. After the last feeding before bedtime, Betty will tuck the baby in her carriage and stroll her down Alder. Betty says it’s the only way to get the little one to sleep. Every night since the baby came to live with Betty and Jerry, Julia has watched Betty make this trip. Only once has Julia joined her. “The baby so favors you,” Julia had said to Betty as they walked that night. She meant her comment to be kind, as if to say, without really saying it, that Betty and Jerry Lawson adopted the perfect child, one who would be mistaken for their own. “She really takes after Jerry’s mother,” Betty had said.

Each night since, Julia has watched Betty and the baby from her window, a wilted article about the Willows tucked in her front pocket. Julia cut the story from the newspaper almost a year ago, and she keeps it in the top drawer of the entry table. The Willows is a home for unwed mothers. Only good girls from nice homes. Every train in the country leads eventually to Kansas City and the Willows. This is most assuredly where Betty and Jerry went to adopt their perfectly matched child. Julia hadn’t wanted to consider it. Why would a couple once successful consider adoption? But maybe it’s a better way. Betty Lawson is definitely happy. Even though she won’t admit she and her husband adopted their new baby, she is still happy. Her hair is flat these days and she regularly forgets to comb out her pin curls since the baby came to live with them, but her eyes are softer. It’s the look of relief.

As Julia has watched Betty and her baby night after night, she has tried to force herself out the door again to ask Betty about the Willows. For three years, Bill has barely touched Julia, hardly seems sorry for it anymore. There may not be another baby if not for another way. I won’t tell a soul, Julia would say to Betty Lawson. But as each night came and went, Julia stood at her window, unable to force herself out the door, and suffered an ache in her chest that wouldn’t dissolve until morning when she woke to find Bill, and now the twins, sitting at the kitchen table, wondering what was for breakfast. Maybe, if Julia and Bill were to adopt they wouldn’t be afraid a baby born to other parents would die. A boy this time. Dark like Bill because a son should favor his father. His skin would have an olive tint, ever so slight, and he would have Julia’s blue eyes. This one would live.

“You’re not going, are you?”

Julia lets the drape fall closed. “What are you doing awake?” she whispers so as to not wake the others.

Late at night or early in the morning, it’s difficult to tell Izzy and Arie apart. Both will have brushed out their hair and scrubbed their faces. In these silent hours, both will be quiet, tender. This is always the way for Arie. Not for Izzy.

The girl standing the top of the stairs clutches the banister with both hands. “You promised Uncle Bill.”

Arie.

“You’re right,” Julia says. “And never let it be said I broke a promise.”

Hiking her slender skirt over her knees, Julia runs up the stairs two at a time, meaning to chase Arie back to bed, but she doesn’t turn and run in her usual way. She doesn’t dip her head and cup a hand over her mouth to muffle the laugh that might wake the others. Instead, she lets go of the banister and wraps her arms around Julia’s waist.

Definitely Arie.

“What’s this sour face all about?” Julia unwraps Arie’s arms to get a good look at her. “What’s wrong, sugar?”

The house is dark except for a light that shines from inside the girls’ room. Arie’s fair eyelashes glitter in the soft glow, and she blinks slowly as if forcing herself to stay awake.

“Let’s get you tucked in,” Julia says.

Inside the girls’ room, Izzy sits up in bed, her eyes wide. One lamp flickers at her bedside.

“Told her to stay put,” Izzy says, swinging her legs over the edge of the mattress so her feet dangle to the floor.

Julia walks Arie to her bed and pulls back the covers, but rather than crawling in, Arie steps up to the window and looks down on the street below.

“I just don’t know, Aunt Julia,” Izzy says. “She’s been acting this way all night.”

“Is something troubling her?” Julia says, speaking to Izzy but watching Arie stand at the window, her face and hands pressed to the mesh screen. A breeze kicks up and tousles her hair, but she doesn’t move away or wrap her arms around herself even though the air is cool.

Izzy pops out of bed. “How would I know? I didn’t do anything. I think she’s afraid of getting snatched like Elizabeth.”

Julia rolls her head around until her eyes meet Izzy’s. “No one snatched Elizabeth. That’s a terrible thing to say.”

Izzy crosses her arms and stares at Julia for a moment before letting her gaze float off to the side.

“Aunt Julia,” Arie says, her face still pressed to the window screen. “I don’t see Mr. Lawson.” She waves a hand to get Julia’s attention. “Go get Uncle Bill. Go get him and tell him to stop Mrs. Lawson.”

Julia walks up behind Arie. On the street below, Betty Lawson, pushing her carriage, has neared Julia’s house.

“What do you mean, sugar?” Julia says. “Stop her from doing what?”

“Mr. Lawson, he’s not there. He’s not watching from the driveway.”

Julia leans around Arie to get a better view out the window, but Arie pushes her away.

“Get Uncle Bill,” she says. “Get him now. Tell him to stop Mrs. Lawson.”

“You need to calm down. Get yourself in bed, and I’ll go see to her.”

Arie dashes past Julia.

“Arie,” Julia says. “Don’t wake Uncle Bill. I’ll go. I’ll see to it she gets home.”

Arie stops at the door, one hand on the knob. “No,” she says. “I don’t want you to. Uncle Bill has to go. Uncle Bill.”

“What’s wrong with you, Arie?” Izzy says, dropping on her bed, bouncing once and coming to rest against her headboard.

Arie leans into the hallway. “Uncle Bill,” she shouts. “Uncle Bill. Uncle Bill.”

Julia rushes across the room. “Arie, hush. What on earth has ruffled your feathers?”

Pulling away from Julia, Arie jumps into the hallway. “Uncle Bill, hurry. Uncle Bill.”

Bill appears in the threshold leading to his and Julia’s bedroom. He stretches his eyes open and struggles to thread a second arm through his shirt.

“Go, Uncle Bill. Hurry.” Arie lunges for Bill and pushes him toward the stairs. “Go get Mrs. Lawson. Go stop her.”

Bill looks at Julia over Arie’s head and Julia lifts both hands in the air, palms up, to signal she doesn’t know what to tell him.

When Bill reaches the bottom of the stairway, Arie runs back into the bedroom. Julia follows and together they watch out the window. One story down, Bill appears on the sidewalk. As he walks toward the street, he buttons his shirt and looks up and down Alder. At the end of the sidewalk, he lifts a hand and says something, though from the second-story window, they can’t hear.

“There,” Julia says, pointing toward the street. “See there. Do you see? That’s Mr. Lawson. He’s right where he always is, keeping an eye. See that? He’s in his undershirt and shorts.” Julia starts to laugh but Arie’s eyes shine like she’s about ready to cry. “Mrs. Lawson is safe, Arie. Safe and sound. She’s on her way home already.”

Arie dips her head until she can see Mr. Lawson and doesn’t move until Betty and the baby have returned to their own driveway.

“Is everything all right now?” Julia says. “Ready for bed?”

Instead of bouncing onto her mattress like her sister, Arie slides under the sheets and lies stiffly while Julia pulls up the covers and tucks them in around her.

“You’ll sleep well?” Julia says, smoothing Arie’s hair off her face and kissing each cheek. At Izzy’s bed, Julia does the same. Bill appears in the doorway, leans there but says nothing. “I have early rhubarb in the refrigerator. Pink and sweet. You girls can mix up your pie tomorrow. Something fun to do while Uncle Bill and I are at the church.” Looking down on Izzy, she says, “There has to be something you’re not telling me. Did you two behave today?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Izzy says, folding her arms and kicking off her sheets and covers. “It’s not my fault she’s completely bats.”

“You sure do favor your mama when you talk like that,” Julia says, and then is sorry for it.

Izzy rolls away at the mention of Sara, Julia’s sister. All the girls know of their mother is what they see when they look at Julia.

Julia switches off the lamp and, outside the girls’ door, cuts out the hallway light. She pulls the door halfway closed and says, “Remember, pie in the morning.”

“Aunt Julia,” Arie says. It’s Arie because Izzy won’t speak to Julia until morning, not after the mention of Sara.

“Yes, sugar.”

Arie pulls loose of the tightly tucked covers and pushes herself into a sitting position, not intending to sleep for a long time. “Elizabeth is never going to come home.”

Arie waits until Aunt Julia has pulled the door closed, but not all the way closed because the girls like a slice of light from the hallway to shine into the room, and she waits some more until Izzy has rolled away and yanked the top sheet over her shoulder. When Izzy’s breathing changes from short puffs of air she exhales because she’s angry with Aunt Julia into long, slow breaths that mean she is asleep, Arie slips one finger under the rosary hung from her headboard and drapes it across her lap.

Grandma has always said the rosary is made of mother-of-pearl beads and that’s why it’s something special. But then Izzy will say mother-of-pearl beads don’t splinter and chip and that rosary is no more special than any other. Every night back home at Grandma’s house, Arie runs her fingers over the smooth beads, usually while holding them under the sheet she has tented with two bent knees. Even though she tries to hide her praying from Izzy, Izzy always knows.

When she was younger, Arie would pray for Mama to come home and sometimes still does. Then there was the Russian dog. Arie prayed only five prayers a night for her and never told Izzy or anyone else because praying for a Russian, even if she was a dog, was probably a sinful thing to do. Izzy says Arie doesn’t do it right anyway. She is supposed to recite Our Father and Hail Mary and follow a path around the beads. This is why Arie hides them and waits until Izzy is asleep. Tonight, as she slips her fingers from the first round, cool bead to the next, she thinks she’ll say twenty prayers for Elizabeth. Or maybe twenty isn’t enough. Maybe she’ll pray all night until morning comes and somewhere along the way, she’ll say a prayer for Mrs. Richardson, too.