Until She Comes Home

CHAPTER EIGHT

It came down directly from the bishop. A special dispensation, he called it. No Mass on this Sunday morning. Every parishioner was excused. The search for Elizabeth was far more important and wouldn’t the good Lord agree. Malina was certain He would.

This morning, Malina has flyers for the men to nail on lampposts and tape in store windows. Mr. Herze had one of the girls in his office make them on a machine at work-a perfect, crisp stack of one hundred flyers, one exactly like the next. A marvel, really, and a blessing in a situation such as this. With the stack tucked securely under one arm, Malina kicks open the kitchen door, the pan of butternut rolls she carries still warm. At the car, she sets the rolls and flyers on the backseat, tucks under her skirt, and stoops to her flowers.

The snapdragons have sprouted early this year. The red, yellow, and pink blossoms draw a colorful border that extends along the front of her property and follows the walkway to her front porch. She reaches into the towering plants and yanks out a dandelion, inspects the threadlike roots, sniffs them, and tosses the weed aside. Another strange smell, but this time, it has polluted her flowers. This is her third visit to the car, and with every trip, the smell grows more robust, as if gaining strength as the day heats up. Whatever the source, it’s not the roots of a dandelion.

All along Alder Avenue, wives click up and down their sidewalks because, although there is no Mass today, it’s Sunday and they feel obliged to wear their leather heels, slender skirts, and white gloves. They carry trays of fried chicken and meatloaves baked early this morning. Others carry desserts, finger foods the men can easily grab. Something sweet and frosted to lift their spirits. Directly across the street, a burst of laughter erupts and those two young girls tumble out of Julia Wagner’s front door. Oversize gardening gloves dangle from their hands. Their wiry arms and legs are bare. Once on the porch, where they must remember the block is praying for Elizabeth Symanski’s safe return, the twins silence themselves, walk down the stairs to the front yard, kneel on the sidewalk that leads to the street, and begin to pull weeds.

It’s been the same since the twins were three years old. Early every summer, Bill Wagner pulls in the drive in time for supper and two girls crawl out of his backseat. When they were younger, they would wear sweet plaid dresses with puffed sleeves and Peter Pan collars. Wearing a full bib apron, Julia would greet them and kiss each on top of her head. But this year, instead of lace-trimmed dresses worn thin at the seams, the girls wear matching navy shorts and blue-and-white striped blouses. Malina didn’t get a good look at the one she saw last night because it was too dark, but this morning, it’s apparent they’ve grown up in the past year. They’ve let their red hair grow well beyond their shoulders and their cheeks have thinned out. It’s also apparent their skin is a darker shade. Obviously they are allowed to play outside unattended for hours each day. Their legs, too, are changed. They are longer, thinner. Their hips, straight and narrow. Their arms, slender, even frail. They could almost be mistaken for young women.

If not for the color of their hair, they could almost be mistaken for Malina.

At the sound of her own front door opening, Malina pushes back on her knees. Mr. Herze’s hard-soled shoes hit the wooden porch. The screen door slaps shut. Staring across the street, most probably at those two girls, Mr. Herze mops his forehead with a white kerchief. He is already suffering though the day has yet to heat up. Malina greets him with a wave and lifts a forearm to wipe the perspiration from her top lip, but stops short of touching herself because that smell has grown stronger. It’s urine. She’s smelling urine.

“I’m making a mushroom soufflé this evening,” she says, staring down at her bare hands. Someone has urinated on her flowers. “I hope you’ll be able to make it home for supper. These long days will take their toll.”

Without bothering to lock the front door, Mr. Herze marches across the porch and stomps down the stairs and toward the street. “Not in my yard, Jerry Lawson,” he shouts.

Malina stands, holding her arms out to her sides so as not to touch herself with soiled hands, and looks for what has drawn Mr. Herze’s attention. It’s Jerry Lawson, coming at them from across the street. He wears blue-and-white broadcloth boxers and a V-neck cotton undershirt. At the curb, Mr. Herze stops, stretches his shoulders back, which causes his large stomach to jut out, and lifts a flattened palm toward Jerry, who is fast approaching.

“Don’t you come any closer,” Mr. Herze says.

Jerry stops in the middle of the street. His lower jaw is gray with a heavy shadow. His undershirt is untucked; his boxers, rumpled. He wears only stockings on his feet. Across the street, the twins have disappeared inside. Jerry reaches out to Mr. Herze, not to shake hands, but as if he wants to brace himself on Mr. Herze’s arm.

“What is a man if he doesn’t have a job?” Jerry says.

Mr. Herze yanks Jerry toward him until they are standing close enough to whisper. Mr. Herze does most of the talking, though Malina can’t hear what is being said. He points toward the Lawsons’ home and shakes his head a few times.

“Wait,” Jerry shouts when Mr. Herze begins to walk away.

Mr. Herze stops, exhales, and circles back.

Jerry points at Malina, directly at Malina, and takes one step toward her.

“She knows,” he says. “Mrs. Herze knows.”

Malina slides next to the car, putting it between her and Jerry. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“You saw me,” Jerry says.

Mr. Herze jams a hand in the center of Jerry’s chest, preventing him from moving any closer to Malina.

“Tell him,” Jerry says. “Tell him you saw me from your car. I waved at you and you waved back.”

Malina leans into the sedan, not at all worried her yellow dress will pick up dust or grime. “What is all this about, Warren?” she says. “What ever has gotten into him?” She glances at the neighbors on either side, wondering who might hear. Most have already left for the church.

Mr. Herze drops the hand from Jerry’s chest and turns to Malina.

“I know you saw me,” Jerry says, stepping up beside Mr. Herze. “That Wednesday night. It was nearly eleven o’clock. I was here, in my very own driveway. You were driving that car.”

Mr. Herze stretches one arm across Jerry’s path but he keeps his eyes on Malina. “Malina?” he says.

“Yes,” Jerry says. “You remember. Betty was walking Cynthia. Pushing her in the stroller. I was nowhere near Willingham. Nowhere near that woman. Tell him, Mrs. Herze.”

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Mr. Lawson,” Malina says. This is why the counting and breathing don’t work. There’s never time. Shielding her eyes from the scantily clad Jerry Lawson, she says to Mr. Herze, “I don’t drive at night. And certainly not at that ridiculous hour. Tell him, Warren. Tell him how the glare bothers me so. I don’t know what this is all about, but I most assuredly have no comment on the matter.”

“You were driving that car,” Jerry says, pointing at the pale green sedan parked in front of Mr. Herze’s car, and again he tries to press forward, but he can’t get at Malina because Mr. Herze blocks the path with a stiff arm. “That car right there. You drove to the corner and turned down Woodward.”

Malina knows from many years of experience to keep her eyes on Mr. Herze. She knows not to let them drift to one side or the other. It’s how he knows she’s lying. “I’m sorry I can’t help you,” she says. “You’re mistaken, I’m afraid.”

Mr. Herze grips the front of Jerry’s rumpled undershirt, pulls him close, and speaks in a whisper. Jerry says nothing else, certainly nothing Malina can hear. Mostly he shakes his head. Signaling the conversation is over, Mr. Herze drops Jerry’s shirt, tucks in the front of his own shirt where his belly has pulled it loose of his trousers, and walks back to the house. Reminding herself to smile, Malina opens the passenger-side door, smooths under her skirt, and sinks into the front seat. She closes her eyes and rests her arms on her lap, her palms open, not touching anything. Outside, Mr. Herze walks back to the front porch, locks and pulls twice on the door, and joins Malina in the car.

“Warren,” Malina says, blinking because keeping good eye contact is more difficult when Mr. Herze is sitting this close. “Have you fired Jerry Lawson?”

It’s the question any wife would ask under normal circumstances.

“Him and three others.”

“Has it to do with those women on Willingham?” Malina reaches across the bench seat and rests one hand on Mr. Herze’s thigh. It’s the thing any wife would do. “Has it to do with the dead woman?”

“The police will see to it,” Mr. Herze says. “It’s of no concern to you.” With both hands on the steering wheel, he stares straight ahead at the back end of Malina’s car. “Is there truth to what he says?” His knuckles and the backs of his large hands are white from clutching the steering wheel. “Were you driving that night?”

“Why would I ever be out at such a late hour?”

Mr. Herze lets go of the steering wheel with one hand, pulls the lever to put the car into reverse, throws his arm over the seat back, and looks out the rear window. Malina looks too. The twins have reappeared on the porch and Bill Wagner stands between them.

“You’re quite certain,” Mr. Herze says, waving at Bill and the twins through his open window as the back of the car swings around and the front points down Alder Avenue.

Perhaps Malina should have told Mr. Herze the truth when he first asked. Yes, she was driving and she did see that ridiculous Jerry Lawson. And then a lie. It had been her night to deliver supper to the shut-ins and she’d forgotten. Yes, it was awfully late to be serving supper, but because she had felt so guilty for overlooking her responsibility, she took the food anyway. That’s the reason she drove down Alder that night. She wasn’t checking up on him or looking for the source of that nasty smell he brings into her house. But she hadn’t said any of those things. She’d lied, promised she’d been at home all evening, and it’s too late now for stories about shut-ins and supper trays. In answer to Mr. Herze’s question, Malina nods but doesn’t try to speak because her voice will crack and give her away. That’s another one of the things that always gets her in trouble.

“Very well,” Mr. Herze says, and throws the car into drive.

Mother came into Grace’s bedroom an hour ago, threw open the heavy curtains and white sheers she had closed the night before, and told Grace it was high time to get up. You’re feeling better, she said-a statement, not a question. No sense sleeping the day away. There’s food to be made and men to be fed. After taking Grace’s robe from the closet and laying it across Grace’s lap, Mother disappeared into the bathroom where she rummaged through the drawers. When she returned, she sat on the bed’s edge, dipped a small sponge into a heavy foundation, and dabbed at Grace’s cheek. After a few moments, Mother leaned back and lifted her face as if to get the best light. There must have been a red mark or possibly a bruise, but it was covered now and Mother said again for Grace to hustle herself on downstairs. Company was coming and it wouldn’t be fitting to sleep all day.

“Do you smell it?” Grace had said before Mother disappeared through the door.

Mother glanced at the open window but didn’t answer.

“The tobacco. The factories. Don’t you smell it?” Grace drew in a deep breath. “Do you remember them?”

The smell of damp tobacco, sweet and rich, floated across the city every morning of Grace’s childhood. When the weather was nice, she would wake beneath an open window and inhale, knowing the thick scent would be there. Many such factories stood then. Now, only a few.

“Don’t be silly,” Mother had said. “It’s the fireworks you smell. Time to get moving.”

At the bottom of the stairs, Grace holds on to the banister with one hand and rests the other on her stomach. It’s a habit, must be, because she doesn’t realize it’s there until a tiny foot, or maybe a knee, bumps her from the inside. All night, the baby was busy rolling and knocking about in Grace’s stomach. Now that Grace is awake, the baby will quiet down. The movement of Grace’s typical day-the comings and goings, hanging out the laundry, climbing the stairs, boarding the bus to Willingham-will calm the baby, soothe her. For the baby, all is unchanged and that’s enough to keep Grace on her feet.

There are voices coming from the kitchen. Two voices. Men. One is James, no mistaking that. The other is strained, barely clear. Grace stretches forward but doesn’t move her feet. Yes, that’s Mr. Symanski. Mother is whisking eggs in Grace’s frying pan and coffee bubbles up in the percolator. She is feeding Mr. Symanski. A pop. Toast popping up in the toaster. Two slices, slightly charred. They are always a bit overdone. Mother will scrape off the blackened crust with a serrated knife and dump the crumbs in the sink. Outside the house, car doors slam. A man shouts out to his wife, “Don’t forget the batteries.” It’s a reminder the search will go into the night.

“They are not saying what it means,” Mr. Symanski says. “They say it may be meaning nothing. They say only that she isn’t being found yet.”

A spatula scrapes the bottom of the skillet. Mother is dishing up the eggs. Forks clatter on the table. Chairs scoot across the tile. Grace leans on the banister, bracing herself. She knows Elizabeth is gone, even if the others don’t. Elizabeth didn’t wander off. He took her, that man, and she won’t ever come home.

“If it was being the river,” Mr. Symanski says and at this, his voice breaks. He starts again. “If she is being lost in the river, they may never be finding her.”

“What more did they tell you?” It’s James’s voice.

“They are having little hope. If she made her way that far, the people who are living there, the people who might have been seeing something, will not be caring to offer help. They are asking me where she would go. That is the only place she knew. The only place Ewa would take her.”

Water runs in the sink and the fresh scent of dish soap spills out of the kitchen into the living room, where Grace stands. Moving about as she sets the salt and pepper on the table, opens and closes the refrigerator, drops dirty dishes in the soapy water, Mother catches a glimpse of Grace.

“Come in here,” she says, leaning into the living room and waving Grace toward her. She jabs a single finger at Grace and then at the kitchen. She did the same when Grace was a child.

Grace wears nothing on her feet, so no one hears her until she clears her throat. With a shallow bow, she greets Mr. Symanski. Both men lift out of their chairs.

“Sit,” she says. “Please, sit. What can I get you, Charles?”

Mr. Symanski waves away the offer and Mother points at a chair so Grace will know to take a seat.

Glancing over her shoulder, Grace says, “I’m so very sorry. From in there, I overheard.”

James stands, pours Grace a cup of coffee, adds one sugar and a splash of cream. “You feeling better?” With one finger, he raises her chin. “What’s this?”

Grace touches the small cut on her upper lip. The swollen spot is smooth and tender. She lays her other hand over James’s, squeezes it. Just as the relief of feeling her baby move made Grace cry, the warmth of James’s hand lifts her tears to the surface. She blinks them away.

“We bumped heads,” Mother says, sliding between Grace and James to place folded linens on the table. She finger-presses the fold in each as she positions it. “Last night. When I was pulling muffins from the oven. My fault really. You know how clumsy I can be.”

“Got you good,” James says.

“Please don’t fuss. Charles, are you getting plenty to eat? Mother, do you have seconds for him?”

“Your fever gone?” James says, brushing aside Grace’s hair and placing one hand on her forehead. “Feel cool. That’s good. But you look tired. Are you tired?”

The ache in her neck and shoulders makes Grace want to slouch forward and rest her arms on the table. She stretches and straightens her back so no one will notice. The baby stretches too. She’s settling in, getting comfortable. Grace draws her fingers across James’s cheek. It’s rough because he didn’t take the time to shave. Mother places a plate of eggs before Grace. James slides the salt and pepper toward her.

“It’s the heat,” Grace says, not knowing how long since James last spoke. “It wears me down.” She lifts one of the napkins Mother set out on the table, gives it a shake, and lets it float across James’s knee. Next, she drapes one across her own knee.

Turning his attention to Mr. Symanski, James lights a cigarette and rests both elbows on the table. What can he and Grace do? Does the rest of the family know yet? James would be happy to make a few calls before he leaves for the church. Mr. Symanski says there is no other family. There is no one. Mother leans in and whispers in Grace’s ear while the men talk.

“Start eating.”

Grace lifts her fork, twists it from side to side, studying it.

“I brought some things,” Mr. Symanski says. “You ladies are gathering clothes, yes?”

“For the thrift store,” Grace says.

“We put them in the garage.” James tilts his head back and blows out a stream of smoke. “Five or six bags, wouldn’t you say, Charles?”

“There is being six.”

“That’s fine,” Grace says. “I’ll see to them. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

Mr. Symanski exhales as if he feels lighter now. They must be Ewa’s things, clothes that have hung in the closet as painful reminders.

“The police will be coming soon,” Mr. Symanski says. “About the shoe.”

Grace drops her fork. It topples off the edge of the plate and comes to rest on the table.

Mother frowns and returns it to the plate’s rim. “They found a shoe,” she says to Grace. “Near the river.” Mother is letting Grace know it wasn’t her shoe they found. It was another.

“Didn’t intend to trouble you with it until you were feeling well,” James says.

“A shoe?” Grace says.

“We thought you might remember. It’s white with a soft rubber sole. Is that the type Elizabeth was wearing?”

“I am knowing I should remember,” Mr. Symanski says. “A father should be knowing, but I don’t know white shoes or black shoes or any other shoes. The police show me, but I am not knowing.”

“I’m not certain,” Grace says. “I would have to think about it.”

James rubs his cigarette into a small glass dish. “It’s not to concern yourself with now. The police will come. They’ll show you what they found.”

“What if my Elizabeth is being gone?” Mr. Symanski says, and chokes again. “Is that meaning she isn’t alone, isn’t frightened? Is that better?”

“Yes,” Grace says, blurting it out before she can stop herself. She can’t tolerate the thought of Elizabeth living in the aftermath of what those men, that man, surely did to her. “I mean, yes,” she says again. “Elizabeth knows she’s not alone, never alone.”

The skin under Mr. Symanski’s eyes hangs in deep crescent-shaped folds. He stares at Grace as if hoping she’ll say more.

Picking up her fork, Grace spears a small bit of her scrambled egg. “Elizabeth liked white sneakers. Wore them often,” she says, staring at the prongs of her fork. While the men came for Grace in her own home, they must have taken Elizabeth to the river and dumped her there. “As I remember, it troubled her when they got scuffed or dirty. Ewa would buy a new pair to make Elizabeth happy.” She smiles and touches Mr. Symanski’s hand. The loose skin is cold and dry. “Ewa would fuss as if those white sneakers were a bother, but she didn’t really mind them. Elizabeth has many pairs, doesn’t she?”

“You are thinking it was my Elizabeth’s shoe?”

Grace places the cold eggs into her mouth. They lie on her tongue. She swallows so she won’t gag.

“Yes,” Grace says. “I think, perhaps, it was her shoe.”

CHAPTER NINE

Julia and Bill pull into the church parking lot later than most. Bill shifts the car into park, turns off the ignition, and crosses his arms on the steering wheel. He leans forward, resting his head on his hands, and exhales loudly. Julia and the twins have barely seen him in the past few days. His cheeks look to have thinned out, though it hardly seems possible it’s happened in such a short time, and dark circles hang under his eyes.

“Today,” he says, rolling his head to the side so he can see Julia. “Today’s the day we find her.”

Directly in front of them, the rounded nose of an old gray Plymouth rolls up, and the driver’s-side door opens. Mr. Symanski pushes himself up and out of the car. Wearing a shirt and tie and a dark jacket that sags on his narrow shoulders, he shuffles no more than a few yards before one of the ladies glides up alongside him, takes hold of his arm, and escorts him to the front of one of two lines that snakes through the parking lot.

The lines are new this morning. As the neighbors and parishioners of St. Alban’s climb from their cars, they take their place at the end of one of them. Bill motions for Julia to do the same, while he joins the men gathered near the entrance to the church basement. Julia cradles in one arm the loaves of sweet bread she mixed up and baked this morning and takes her place at the back of the closest line.

All of the ladies, like Julia, are dressed in fitted jackets and tailored skirts. Already many are fanning themselves with old church bulletins and fussing about desserts that will spoil if forced to sit out in this rising heat. Julia glances at her watch. She promised the girls she would come home at lunchtime to grill them cheese sandwiches, but given the length of this line, she might still be waiting when noon rolls around, though for what, she isn’t sure.

“Why the holdup?” Julia asks the gentleman standing in the line next to her. She recognizes him and his wife from services but can’t remember their names.

“Taking names,” the man says. Without looking in Julia’s direction, he helps his wife slip off her peplum jacket.

“Who’s taking names? And for what purpose?” Julia hugs her sweet bread in hopes of keeping it warm. When she goes home at lunchtime, she’ll mix up four beef-and-corn casseroles to be baked at the church and served up for the men’s supper. She’ll definitely have to make a trip to the market tomorrow.

“Police,” the man’s wife says. A gold bobby pin has pulled loose at the nape of her neck and sparkles where it catches the light. “They’re recording who is here and who isn’t. They found her shoe, you know. Down by the river.”

Julia starts to ask why the police would do such a thing, but even though she doesn’t entirely understand, it’s clear enough they think who is or isn’t here might have some bearing on what did or did not happen to Elizabeth. It’s clear enough that had Elizabeth simply wandered off, the police would have no interest in who is or is not participating in the search.

The line doesn’t move as slowly as Julia had feared and when she reaches the front, Bill rejoins her. Two police officers sit behind a metal table, thick binders opened up before them. One asks questions of Bill and Julia; the other, of the man and his wife. Bill answers, giving their name, address, and the names of their neighbors on either side. He answers yes without even a glimpse of his surroundings when asked if he recognizes everyone he sees and answers no when asked if he has seen any strangers joining in the search. He also points out the two latter questions are, in fact, the same question asked two different ways.

“That’s the point,” the officer says.

Julia leans around Bill. “The point to what?” she asks.

The officer ignores her and says, “Have any neighbors, friends, or relatives failed to include themselves?”

Again, taking no time to consider his answer, Bill says, “No.”

Next to Bill and Julia, the man and his wife scan the people who mill about before answering the same question.

“Jerry Lawson,” the woman says, finally tucking in the loose-hanging pin.

The other officer nods as if she is not the first to mention that name.

“What of Jerry Lawson?” Bill says, resting both hands on the table. Even hunched over, Bill is taller than the man.

“He is not here,” the woman says while her husband remains silent. “They asked who is not here, so we told them.”

“Why on earth would you take it upon yourself to mention the Lawsons?” Julia says. “They’re not neighbors of yours. If they were, you might recall they have only recently become parents.” She smiles at the officer. “A few weeks ago. We would never expect them to be here with a new baby at home.”

“Actually, they adopted,” the woman says. “And we have every right to mention Jerry Lawson. Everyone here knows of his troubles.”

“A new baby is a new baby,” Julia says, more loudly than she had intended. Ladies toting casserole dishes and covered pots and pans and gentlemen escorting the ladies by the arm stop to listen. Julia frowns at them and waves them on their way. “It doesn’t much matter where that sweet baby came from.” And then, because news of Jerry Lawson standing in the middle of Alder wearing little more than his undergarments while arguing with Warren Herze has obviously made its way to St. Alban’s, she turns to the officer and says, “This woman is spreading gossip, and it stinks so bad she might as well be spreading manure. She knows Jerry Lawson’s troubles have nothing to do with Elizabeth Symanski or this search.”

Before Julia can say anything more, Bill wraps one hand around her wrist and squeezes, a signal she need say no more. He gives her a wink.

“No one is unaccounted for among this group,” he says to the officer. “Write that down. No one is unaccounted for.”

When the officer has asked his last question, Julia follows Bill toward the church basement. She feels it as they pass among the others waiting in line and climbing from their cars. The early assumption that Elizabeth would be found walking aimlessly down Woodward first gave way to the worry she wandered all the way to the river and now, because the police are taking names and asking questions, these early theories have given way to fears of a violent end for Elizabeth.

Mother’s pierogi. Walking into the kitchen, this is what Grace smells. Because James said so, Grace will stay home today while the other ladies work at the church. It’s for the best, Mother had whispered as James gathered his things to leave for the day, and Grace had to agree even though she felt guilty for having nothing to contribute. With her back to Grace, Mother stands at the stove. Her elbow juts out to the side and moves in a small circle. She is stirring the pierogi so they don’t stick. Already, Mother has made enough of the crescent-shaped noodles to cover two trays. Potato and onion. They were always Grace’s favorite.

“Will you take them to the church?” Grace says.

Mother nods, pulls a cast-iron pot from the oven, and motions for Grace to take a seat. Wearing mitts on both hands, Mother carries the large pot to the table, sets it in front of Grace, lifts the lid, and lets the padded mitts drop from her hands. With her fingers, she plucks a damp towel from inside the large pot and tests that it’s not too hot by tossing it from hand to hand. Once satisfied with its temperature, she rolls it up and presses it to Grace’s neck and shoulders.

“He wanted to check in on you,” Mother says, returning to her noodles. “Called three times while you were sleeping. I told him you were fine and spent the morning rolling out pierogi.”

Grace grabs hold of the warm towel with both hands and draws it around her neck. “So he knew you were lying,” she says with a laugh, but stops herself when the small slit on her upper lip tears open. Holding the towel in place with one hand, she flips open the newspaper left on the table since breakfast. A few days ago, she searched the paper for news of the dead woman on Willingham, mostly for Julia’s benefit-something to talk about other than the baby in the corner. Today, she’s looking for news of Elizabeth and of herself, though she won’t find anything about what happened to her.

Mother walks back to the table, this time with a plate of warm pierogi. She places them in front of Grace, pours a glass of milk, and slides the salt within reach. “You’ll want some of that nice pink lipstick today,” she says. “It’ll freshen you up.” And then, waving a hand at the swell in Grace’s belly, she says, “Go on and eat. You need to eat.”

As Grace cuts her pierogi into thirds, the thing she has done since she was a child, Mother fishes half a dozen noodles from the potato water and taps them out on a sheet of waxed paper.

“Any sign?” Mother says, dropping the last few uncooked noodles in the pot. When Grace doesn’t answer, Mother gives another wave in the direction of Grace’s belly. “Having a man so close to the end can spur a baby on. Any sign she’s thinking about coming early?”

Grace shakes her head.

“Drink that milk then, and let’s go.”

Grace follows Mother out the kitchen door, down the concrete stairs, and toward the back of the house. At the garage, Mother lifts its heavy door and throws it overhead.

“Can’t be afraid in your own home,” Mother says, stepping into the garage. She kicks at a small sliver of glass and motions for Grace to join her.

“I’m not afraid,” Grace says. “In a day or two. I’ll come out in a day or two.”

“Today.” Mother tucks under her skirt, sinks to her knees, and picks up glass Grace missed the night before. “Now. Or it’ll sink in. It’ll get the better of you.”

Grace looks down the alley and then out toward the street.

“It’s not yet noon on a Sunday,” Mother says, tossing a few pieces of glass in the garbage can. “Damn fool like that isn’t going to be out and about on a Sunday morning.” She gives another nod, directing Grace inside. “You check over there. Won’t do if this glass finds its way into one of James’s tires.”

Grace might have thought panic would swell up as she entered the garage. She might have thought her breathing would quicken, her heart would begin to pound, sweat would break out across her brow and upper lip. But all is quiet. She floats deep into the garage. The outside air had ruffled her skirt, but inside, the air stops. Her hair hangs down her back, held off her face by a white silk scarf. Her skin is cool and dry. She lowers herself onto hands and knees, lays one hand flat on the dirt floor, and moves it slowly and lightly from side to side, searching for bits of glass.

“Put that damn fool thing away.”

It’s Mother. She has left the garage and disappeared into the alley. Grace pushes herself to her knees. Now her chest begins to lift and lower. Her breathing does quicken. Her heart does pound.

“Good Lord in heaven.” It’s still Mother. “You are the damnedest old fool I ever laid eyes on.”

Two faces pop around the corner of the garage. The twins. Their skin is tanned and freckles pepper the bridge of their noses and the rounds of their cheeks. Their long red hair has been woven into braids, two on each girl. One raises a hand. A wave. Julia is next to appear. Her red hair has been tightly wound and pinned on top of her head. Because she wears her nicer heels and her linen skirt, Grace knows she’s been to the church already today. Grace walks over to one of the garbage cans, lifts its lid, and lets glass tumble from her hand.

“Your mother is about to clobber Orin Schofield,” Julia says, a white porcelain casserole dish cradled in her hands. She must have gotten word Grace wasn’t feeling well and she’s brought food. “You better get out here.”

Across the alley, Orin Schofield stands near his garage and holds the same piece of wood he carried the night Elizabeth disappeared.

“It was one of those two,” he says, jabbing the board at the twins.

“Quit your fussing,” Mother says. “And get yourself back inside.”

“I saw them running.” Orin stabs at the air again. “Running right there. One of them, anyway. Just last night. Right there. Broke my damn window, they did.”

“A window was broken?” Grace asks. Once outside the garage, her pounding heart slows and the air is easier to inhale

“Third one in two nights,” Orin says, dropping the board to his side, leaning on it and pulling a kerchief from his front pocket. He mops his eyes and neck. “And they set my garbage on fire. My garbage. Damn near burned down my house. Thought it was those colored boys from down the block. Thinking maybe I was wrong.”

Julia shakes her head. “Orin, you think these two put a match to your garbage? They aren’t even allowed out of the house. Bill has threatened to take a belt to their backsides if they disobey. And believe me, they won’t risk that.”

“We didn’t break your old window.” It’s Izzy. Arms crossed, one hip thrust to the side, she faces Orin. “Or set fire to your stinky garbage.”

“Manners, Izzy.”

The other twin, Arie, stares at Grace. Her eyes seem to settle on Grace’s split lip. When Grace glances her way, the girl lowers her eyes to the ground.

“Mr. Schofield, sir,” Izzy says. “We did not break your window or burn up your garbage.”

“What about that one?” Orin says, poking the board in Arie’s direction. The collar of his white shirt is too big for his neck, as if he’s shrunk over the years, and his pants pucker where he’s pulled his belt too tight. “That one have anything to say?”

Arie slides backward, shaking her head.

“That’s enough, Orin,” Julia says, handing the casserole dish to Grace and taking a step toward Orin. “You’re frightening the girls. You brought those broken windows on yourself. Running your mouth down at the Filmore. Brought it all on yourself. If you’ve anything else to say, you take it up with Bill.”

“I said it before,” Mother says, stretching overhead and pulling closed the garage door. “And I’ll say it again. Get on inside, you old goat.”

Orin hobbles to his garage, leaning on his board as he goes, then grabs a rusted metal folding chair from inside and pops it open at the alley’s edge. “Don’t let me catch the two of you poking around my house.” Orin slaps the chair’s canvas back and brushes off its seat. “See this chair? It and I will be here in this alley every day. I’ll be keeping an eye out. Keeping an eye out for you two or whoever else is causing trouble. You know what’s best,” he says, lowering himself into the seat, “you won’t let me catch you.”