Until She Comes Home

CHAPTER TEN

It’s Monday morning and traffic is light along Woodward. It’s as if everyone in the city has spent these past few days searching for Elizabeth and is exhausted by it. Pressing one hand against the seat back in front of her as the bus pulls away and letting the other rest on the swell in her stomach, Grace hopes none of the ladies will notice she has forgotten her white gloves. She must have overlooked them on her bedroom dresser or possibly on the table near the back door.

Before leaving to catch the bus this morning, Grace had touched Mother on the sleeve and said, “I think I should tell.”

Setting aside the broom she had been pushing across the kitchen floor, Mother covered Grace’s hand with one of her own. “It’s Monday,” she said. “Go to Willingham. Fill your cupboards. They’ll be needing more food down at that church.”

“It might help the police.” Grace lingered in the doorway. “What if those men, that man, did the same to Elizabeth? What if he does it again? James’s only concern will be for me. For the baby.”

“Heaven help that child if those men got her,” Mother said, holding open the door so Grace could pass. “But your telling won’t change that.” Then she smoothed Grace’s blond hair, a reminder to keep her makeup fresh and her hair carefully combed, pinned, and sprayed. A pretty face will keep peace in the house.

“Don’t think more of your husband than you should,” Mother had said. “Don’t make that mistake.”

Continuing down Woodward, the bus gathers speed and the morning air, just beginning to warm, rushes through the open windows. Reaching up with one bare hand, Grace holds her pillbox hat in place. The other ladies don’t bother with hats anymore. They don’t care to ruin their new, higher hairstyles, but today Grace wears her gray pillbox with the velvet trim she normally wears only on Sundays. It covers the small gash on the back of her head she worries might be seen. She shifts her weight from one hip to the other to avoid the cross-breeze. Not meaning to, she lets out a soft groan. Mother said Grace’s tailbone is only bruised and she shouldn’t carry on about it.

“Grace,” Malina Herze says, leaning across the aisle. “Are you okay, dear?” Malina cups the tight curl on the end of her dark bob.

Grace drops her bare hand to her lap. “I’m fine. It’s just this heat.”

Reaching out with her own white-gloved hand, Malina squeezes Grace’s wrist. Grace flinches but doesn’t pull away. Her wrists and arms are sore, still ache where one of them pinned her to the ground.

“Don’t be fooled by the bake sale’s new date, dear,” Malina says. One of her carefully tweezed eyebrows, the right one, lifts, her forehead crinkling when she notices Grace’s exposed hands. “You heard, didn’t you? It’s postponed only a few weeks. You know, of course, pierogi freeze quite nicely. No need to wait until the last minute.”

While Saturday brought news of the white sneaker found along the river, Sunday passed with no news at all. And today, Monday, the search will continue even though the men should be returning to work. Others at the factory will work evening shifts and over the next weekend if they have to, over as many weekends as it takes, so the men from Alder and its neighboring streets can continue to look for Elizabeth. These workers have pledged their overtime to the families of those who search.

Monday also brought news that the bake sale has been officially postponed and that Malina Herze has taken up the job of organizing the ladies. Just as she had a schedule and a list for the bake sale, she now has a schedule and a list for the search. This morning, Malina gave the wives of Alder Avenue the morning off to tend to their families and run their errands. From this day on, they’ll work in four-hour shifts, preparing food, cleaning up after the men, brewing fresh coffee. They must hope and pray every day brings news of Elizabeth’s safe homecoming, but must also brace themselves for a new kind of life, one that may include never knowing what became of the girl and a search that may never end.

Just past the thrift store, the bus stops, its door opens, and Julia appears. She must have had Bill drop her at the store this morning. Usually, she and Grace do their volunteering together. Many times over the years, they’ve sorted donations at the small shop under Malina’s watchful eye. Grace would scold Julia when she pulled the blouses inside out before slipping them on a hanger. Julia would hang them up anyway and when Malina asked why they were laughing, Grace would say it was nothing, just a silly joke she had told. Once Malina busied herself with another load of clothes, Grace would turn the next blouse inside out, slip it on a hanger, and give Julia a wink.

Knowing Julia will sit next to her, Grace slides toward the window to make room and rests her face against the glass. A sharp pain shoots through her cheek and up into her eye. She straightens in her seat and pulls a compact from her purse to check her lipstick. Across the aisle, two of the ladies smile at her with tilted heads. Grace, with her bulging stomach, is a reminder to them, to everyone who sees her, that life will go on. No matter how terrible the news of Elizabeth might be, those ladies see Grace and think she is sweet and beautiful and that she’ll give birth to a child who is the same.

“Didn’t expect to see you today,” Grace says when Julia drops onto the seat next to her.

Julia doesn’t answer and instead points toward the street. Two men walk out of the hardware store next to the thrift shop. One of the two carries a clipboard. He scribbles as they walk to the next store. Once there, he yanks on the door’s handle and both disappear inside. They are men looking for Elizabeth. The busload of ladies has paused to allow the men to pass.

There is talk this morning of the women on Willingham. No one has thought much about that dead woman in the days since Elizabeth disappeared. There’s been no news of the woman, no arrest. Now that they’re traveling back to Willingham, thoughts of her work their way back to the surface. The ladies are worried, too, though no one wants to say it aloud, that maybe the dead woman sheds some light on what became of Elizabeth. All around Grace, the ladies have been talking about the police they’ll most likely see on Willingham. It’s possible there is no more work to be done in the alley where that woman was killed, but they’ll definitely be searching the river because today is day four, the day the men say Elizabeth’s body would surely float to the surface if she had drowned.

“Bill dropped me on his way to the church,” Julia says once the bus has pulled away from the curb. “I’ve had the girls cleaning out closets. Gives them something to do while I’m gone.” Then she whispers, “Too many bags to tote on the bus. It’ll drive Malina wild to find out I dropped them off at the store myself.”

Grace lets out a short laugh but tries not to smile. Every smile causes the small cut to split again. Julia is the only one of the ladies Grace laughs with. The others make her altogether too aware of the length of her skirt, the curls in her hair, or the shade of lipstick she has chosen. She worries her choices are all wrong and that the ladies will later whisper about her. Julia is the friend who would tell Grace if a lipstick shade was unbecoming, but only so she could snag the tube for her own use.

“Did you hear?” Julia says, leaning in to whisper. This is how it starts. She’ll say something funny, something irresistible, even today, even knowing Elizabeth is still gone. Julia wants things to be normal again too. “About Malina’s flowers?”

Grace shakes her head.

“Someone urinated on them. Walked right down the middle of the street and there in front of God and Alder Avenue, urinated on them. More than once, it would appear.”

“That is not true.”

“Told me herself. She’s started spraying them at all hours. Poor things are already waterlogged. They’ll be wilting before you know it. Probably won’t last the month.” Julia tells the rest from behind the cover of one hand. “She actually thought the twins had done it. Cornered me at the church and accused them. So, of course, I asked her to explain the logistics of that. She agreed it would be rather difficult. And rather conspicuous.”

“Julia, stop,” Grace says, trying not to smile so her lip won’t swell up on her. “It’s not right to carry on like this.”

On past bus rides, Grace and Julia would sometimes laugh until Grace’s cheeks and stomach ached. And when, later in the day, Grace would return to an empty house, she could never recall what had made her laugh, but the memory of it always made her smile. Later still in the day, Grace would call. What are you fixing for supper, one would ask the other. Coffee? I’ll be right down. Usually Julia came to Grace’s house. And then after supper, one last call asking how that beefsteak turned out or what’s the best way to tackle a grease stain, to which Julia would reply… don’t throw out the shirt, throw out the husband. And again, they would laugh.

Julia gives Grace one last nudge. “But it feels good, doesn’t it, to laugh?”

The bus continues toward Willingham Avenue. The morning air, light and almost crisp, blows through the open windows. Outside the bus, cars drive past, most of them with their windows rolled down. The ladies in those cars hold the steering wheel at ten and two and wear sheer scarves-yellow, pink, or white-folded in half, draped over their hair and tied under their chins. At the stoplights, the men rest an elbow on the doorframe and hang their lit cigarettes out the window. As the bus nears downtown, the cars stack up deeper at each stoplight and the buildings rise higher on both sides of Woodward, narrowing the street. The smell of river water pushes aside the smell of freshly clipped grass and concrete just hosed down. At the intersection of Woodward and Willingham, the bus slows. The air settles.

“Come with me to the cleaners?” Julia says, standing once the bus has stopped.

Grace shakes her head and slides back down onto the seat. “I’m not feeling well. I have enough in my freezer to get by. I think I’ll take the bus back home.”

Julia stretches over the seat to lay a hand on Grace’s forehead. “James mentioned you’d been feeling poorly. No fever.” She straightens. “Get some rest. I’ll call later, stop by before I go to the church.”

Julia slips into the aisle behind Malina Herze and plugs her nose as if smelling the urine from Malina’s flowerbeds. Again Grace resists the urge to smile. She lifts a hand to wave good-bye but quickly lowers it so no one will notice she forgot her gloves. Even before the bus has pulled away toward its last stop, where it will turn around to drive back up Woodward, Grace knows she’ll not come on the morning bus again. She can’t see the others because she is so changed. The other ladies are changed too, but not in a lasting way. Already they are easing back to a normal life, a life that won’t include Elizabeth Symanski. But Grace won’t ease back, and eventually they’ll notice. Eventually, they’ll want to know why.

Julia will be the first, maybe the only one, to raise questions with Grace. The others will be too polite, just as they’re too polite to mention an unfortunate lipstick color. They’ll assume it’s a private matter, perhaps a problem in Grace’s marriage or bad news regarding the baby, and they’ll be caring but distant because they won’t want Grace’s troubles to rub off on them. Julia, however, won’t concern herself with privacy or contagious problems. She’ll ask questions, many questions. She’ll be bold and persistent. She’ll come to Grace’s house, sweep the floors, wring the laundry, cook the meals. She’ll want to do the things Grace did for Julia when her daughter died. She’ll want to nurse Grace until she is well again. Julia will be a constant reminder that Grace’s life will never again be as it once was.

“Is there an afternoon bus to Willingham?” Grace calls up to the driver after the door has closed.

The bus pops and hisses and continues down Woodward.

Speaking to Grace through the rearview mirror, the driver says, “Twelve fifteen at Alder. That your street?”

“Thank you,” she says. “That’ll be fine.”

Aunt Julia won’t be home for hours. She’s off shopping with the other ladies, and that will keep her away all morning. Still, Izzy and Arie twice look up and down the street because it wouldn’t do for one of Aunt Julia’s friends to catch them outside. From somewhere north of Alder Avenue, a round of firecrackers explodes, one shooting off right on top of another. Grandma says they start earlier and earlier every year, and isn’t that a shame. Those firecrackers are like a starting pistol, and clutching a cold, wet bottle against her stomach, Izzy gives a wave and she and Arie take off running through the side yard that cuts between the Turners’ and Brandenbergs’ houses. The girls hit the alley and their feet slip in the dry dirt and kick up clouds of dust. They keep running even though their throats are dry and they need to spit and their legs are tired from going all the way to Beersdorf’s Grocery and back.

Izzy would have thought Arie would run all the way to Aunt Julia’s because she’s scared of the alley now, but something makes her shorten her stride, slow, and eventually stop. Straight ahead, a few yards past Mrs. Richardson’s garage, Mr. Schofield’s rusted old chair and sawed-off piece of wood sit in the middle of the alley. No sign of rusted old Mr. Schofield.

The girls had been halfway to Beersdorf’s Grocery before Arie realized where they were going. Izzy told her no one was twisting her arm and she could go on back home if she wanted. She knew Arie wasn’t brave enough for that, so they walked the rest of the way to Beersdorf’s, one block west and three blocks south, all the while watching for men who might be searching for Elizabeth. Every time they saw a car coming, they ducked behind a clump of bushes or the trunk of an elm. “Why bother walking all the way to Beersdorf’s when we don’t have any money?” Arie had said when they were halfway there. But money wasn’t the thing that kept Arie from wanting to go to Beersdorf’s.

Besides being afraid of the back alley, which seemed to make Arie afraid of everything, she didn’t want to go to Beersdorf’s because Aunt Julia didn’t shop there anymore. Arie figured there must be a good reason. Grandma always says there’s no moss growing under Aunt Julia and she wouldn’t do something, or not do something, without a good reason. Not too long ago, Aunt Julia did shop at Beersdorf’s and only took the bus to Willingham once or twice a week. Beersdorf’s couldn’t have turned into a bad place in such a short time. That’s what Izzy thought. Arie thought it didn’t take long at all for things to turn bad. Just look at a banana.

Slipping the Royal Crown under her shirt had been easy for Izzy. Mr. Beersdorf was more interested in the Negroes standing outside his shop than he was in keeping an eye on two girls. Loitering. That’s what people called what those Negroes were doing. Arie was more interested in those Negroes too. She was even scared of them, keeping both eyes on them the whole time they were in the store. She didn’t know a Royal Crown was tucked under Izzy’s shirt until they were down the street and around the corner and headed toward home. Several times during the walk back, Arie said, “How are you going to open that stolen bottle of pop?” Standing now in the middle of the alley and seeing the Richardsons’ garage door is wide open, and not wanting old Mr. Schofield to catch them breaking Aunt Julia’s rules, Izzy knows exactly how she’ll open this bottle of pop.

The Richardsons’ house is quiet. No sign of Mrs. Richardson or anyone else. Even though none of the ladies of Alder are working at the church this morning because it’s their turn to catch up on things around the house, they’ll all be on the bus to Willingham with Aunt Julia or down in their basements running their laundry through a wringer. Across the alley at Mr. Schofield’s house, a screen door squeals and slaps shut. The colored men have a schedule. That’s what Aunt Julia and Uncle Bill said. Not that it’s a dependable schedule, but worth knowing all the same. They like to catch the 10:00 a.m. bus, at least a few of them, as if they might have a job. They’re back again for the 5:15. No telling what goes on in the middle of the night. But be mindful, that’s what Uncle Bill said. Mr. Schofield must know about the schedule too.

Holding the wet bottle that isn’t so cold anymore against her stomach, Izzy yanks Arie toward the open garage. She follows for a few steps and then pulls away.

“I’m not going in there,” Arie says, keeping her voice low in case those are Mr. Schofield’s footsteps.

“Would you rather get a whipping from him?” Izzy points at the rusted old folding chair and gives Arie another yank.

Once inside the garage, the air is instantly cooler. They stand motionless, both of them holding their breath so they can hear better. No one shouts at them for being where they don’t belong. Izzy points toward the back of the garage, and once she’s sure there is no piece of wood tapping across the gravel outside, she walks to the wooden bench straight ahead and flips open the lid on Mr. Richardson’s toolbox. The musty smell and the gritty tools, which are mostly heavier than Izzy would have thought they would be, make her think about fathers and the things they keep and don’t keep around the house. She doesn’t know anything about fathers, but she does know the large tool that opens and closes wide enough to grab a bottle cap is called a pair of pliers. Yes, a pair of pliers should work real good.

“Have a seat,” she whispers to Arie. “I’ll have this open in no time.”

The tangy smell of fireworks has followed them into the garage. It’s growing stronger, as if someone close is shooting them off.

“I’m not drinking any of that stolen pop,” Arie says. She slips far enough into the garage that no one will be able to see her, crosses her arms over her chest like she’s hugging herself, and sinks into the rough wooden wall.

Izzy wrenches off the cap, takes a long drink, coughing because the bubbles swell up in her throat, and says, “Suit yourself.” She takes another drink, holds up the bottle to check how much is left, and from the middle of the garage she points at the south wall. “Look there,” she says. “We could use that.”

Walking across the dirt floor, Izzy shivers, maybe from the cooler air or maybe from the stolen pop racing through her veins, and lifts a length of rope from the hook where it hangs. She can almost taste the smoke in the air now.

“Could be a leash for Patches,” she says, starting to take another drink but stopping because her stomach doesn’t feel so good.

“You stealing rope now too?” Arie asks, and smiles because she knows Izzy’s stomach hurts. “Don’t bother. That’s way too big for a cat.”

“Yeah,” Izzy says, watching for any sign of Mr. Schofield. “You’re probably right. Good jump rope, though.”

“Now, this would make a good leash.” Arie slides a few more feet into the garage and nudges whatever it is with her toe as though testing to see if it’s alive.

Izzy tosses the rope over one shoulder and joins her. “What is it?” she says. The smell of something burning grows stronger as Izzy walks toward Arie. It’s probably the boys who live a block past Tuttle Avenue. Aunt Julia says boys who grow up find trouble to stir up. Before Izzy and Arie climbed into Uncle Bill’s car, their suitcases already stowed in the trunk, Grandma had pointed at Izzy and told her not to get any ideas about boys. She jabbed her finger twice, even poking Izzy in the chest the second time, and said it again. We won’t have any accidents in this house, Grandma had said. And when she asked if Izzy understood, she nodded even though she hadn’t.

“Looks like old clothes and things,” Arie says. “Must be Mrs. Richardson’s stuff.”

Reaching into one of the bags, Arie pulls out a thin white belt. Tiny pink and white jewels cover the small round buckle. She threads one end of the belt through the buckle and pulls it until the belt is the size of a cat’s neck. “It’s perfect,” she says in a loud voice.

Izzy leaps forward and slaps a hand over Arie’s mouth. They stand still and listen. A few quiet moments pass. No sign of Mr. Schofield. Izzy drops her hand from Arie’s mouth.

“Sorry,” Arie whispers.

Izzy tilts her head and raises her brows at Arie. Usually, Arie is the one giving this look to Izzy. “How come it’s okay for you to steal?” Izzy asks as she walks over to the six brown bags lined up against the wall, where Mr. Richardson won’t hit them with his car. “But not okay for me?” She pulls out a blouse by its sleeve and lets it float back into the bag.

“It’s not stealing. She’s throwing all this out. It’s with the trash.”

Both girls stop talking and Izzy crosses a finger over her lips. On the other side of the garage, something creaks, like the old metal legs of an old rusted folding chair groaning under the weight of an old Mr. Schofield. Placing one foot directly in front of the other because that’s the quietest way, Izzy walks toward the back of the garage and presses an ear to the cool wall. Hearing nothing more and forgetting her upset stomach, she takes another drink but the Royal Crown has turned warm. They’ll have to peek outside to see if Mr. Schofield is sitting in his chair. If he is, they could be stuck here until suppertime.

“This must have fallen out of one of the bags.” Izzy whispers loudly enough for only Arie to hear and stoops to pick up a lady’s white dress shoe from the dirt floor. Letting it dangle from one finger, she holds it up to inspect it in better light and to give Arie a good look at it.

“That shoe is lots bigger than the ones in the bags.” Arie moves closer, but not too close. “And it’s almost new. It’s Mrs. Richardson’s.”

“They’re all Mrs. Richardson’s,” Izzy says, scanning the dirt floor for a spot to dump the rest of the pop.

“But this one is bigger. Pregnant women buy bigger shoes. This shoe isn’t supposed to be garbage.”

“What does pregnant have to do with anything?”

“Don’t you remember Aunt Julia’s feet? Remember how spongy they got?” Arie waves a hand in front of her face, obviously smelling the same nasty smoke Izzy smells. “Remember how we went to Hudson’s and she bought big shoes? This is one of Mrs. Richardson’s big pregnant shoes.”

Izzy remembers going to Hudson’s but shakes her head anyway. She doesn’t like thinking about anything that has to do with Maryanne. They visited once and the baby was there, filling up Aunt Julia’s house. When they visited again, she was gone, and the house has been empty ever since, hollow even.

“Well, we can’t ask her if it’s hers,” Izzy says, being careful to whisper, but it’s hard to do when she gets this annoyed with Arie. “Better put it back with the others.” She rubs the shoe against her shirt, buffing off the dirt, and tosses it toward Arie.

Never one to easily catch a ball, Arie lunges, reaches out, but the shoe sails past her and she falls into one of Mr. Richardson’s garbage cans. The lid topples off and a cloud of smoke erupts from the silver can and rolls up into the air.

Arie slaps a hand over her mouth, and Izzy drops her pop bottle.

“The lid,” Izzy whispers, jabbing a finger at the lid lying on the ground, but then waves Arie off. “No, stop. It’ll be hot.” Grabbing a skirt from one of the bags, Izzy wraps it around her hand, picks up the lid by its edge, and tosses it toward the can. It misses, bouncing off the rim and landing near Arie’s feet.

“You better come on out of there,” a voice shouts.

It’s Mr. Schofield. The girls flap their arms at the rising smoke and back away from the growing flame.

“Got myself a rifle out here,” Mr. Schofield shouts.

Izzy grabs Arie. “It’s us, Mr. Schofield,” she says, hugging Arie to her. “Mr. Schofield, it’s just us.”

Even though Izzy can’t see Mr. Schofield, can only hear him, she knows he’ll be walking with a limp, almost dragging his right leg as if that side of his body is heavier than the other. One shoulder will be sagging forward and his jowls will be drooping. They wobble when he walks or talks. It’s the polio he had as a child, Aunt Julia once told them. It never quite leaves a person and now it’s eating him away from the inside out. She says Izzy and Arie are lucky they’ll never have to worry about ending up like Mr. Schofield.

“Come on out,” Mr. Schofield shouts again. “I smell your goddamned fire.”

“No, Mr. Schofield. It’s us. It’s us.”

“Goddamn you and your fire.”

Izzy pulls Arie deeper into the garage, into the farthest, darkest corner. “It’s us, Mr. Schofield. It’s Arie and Izzy.”

But Mr. Schofield doesn’t hear.

“Come on out or I start firing.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Once off the bus, Malina hurries across Willingham while the other ladies linger to stare at the warehouse. Positioned squarely at the T-junction where Willingham Avenue dead-ends into Chamberlin, the white stone building stands three stories high. Its windowsills are chipped and crumbling as if it’s sinking into the footings, and the doorways are boarded over. This is where those Negro women gather to show themselves to the husbands. Some say the women strip themselves of their blouses and undergarments so the men will want them more.

The ladies stare only for a moment, their lips puckered and their arms crossed, and then they remember their real concern should be for Elizabeth and not the Negro women or what the husbands may be up to. Reminding themselves of the finer things in life, they tug at their gloves, check the clasps on their handbags, smooth their curls, and head off to the deli or the cleaners or the drugstore. In twenty minutes, they’ll all meet at the bakery. On the bus ride over, the ladies agreed that if Mrs. Nowack insisted on keeping her doors open on payday, they’d be patrons no longer. Together, in twenty minutes’ time, this is what they’ll tell Mrs. Nowack.

Next door to the warehouse, the factory’s parking lot is only half full. Most of the men, Mr. Herze included, have gathered again at the church. Once Malina is certain Mr. Herze’s sedan is not among the cars parked there, she swivels on one heel and walks toward the river. For the next twenty minutes, the ladies will scurry from store to store. They’ll not notice Malina’s whereabouts. Twenty minutes is certainly enough time. If Mr. Herze’s girl is still alive, a block or so down Chamberlin is where Malina will likely find her.

“I’m quite certain it’s true,” Doris Taylor had said after the ladies of Alder Avenue boarded the bus. She sat on the edge of her seat and spoke loudly so her voice would carry over the air rushing through the open windows. “Mrs. Nowack has no intention of closing her doors on payday. What are we to do?”

Though it was Doris who spoke, the ladies scooted about in their seats to look to Malina. It was a reminder she was one of the oldest among them.

“I really haven’t any opinion,” Malina had said.

The ladies, a few with their mouths dangling open, stared at Malina, waiting, obviously thinking she had spoken in jest. Again, resenting the ladies for thrusting her into a matronly position, Malina snapped her own mouth shut so the ladies might realize their rude behavior and flicked a hand at them, urging them to turn away.

“We should all go to Mrs. Nowack,” Doris Taylor had said. Doris brought cinnamon rolls to the bake sale every year even though they always sold poorly. She used too few pecans and consistently overcooked them. “All of us together. As one. We’ll tell her we’ll not shop in her store if she refuses to close her doors. One of our ladies might be tempted to go to Willingham on payday if the bakery remains open. It’s for our own safety. Malina said so herself just the other day.”

Again, the ladies looked to Malina. “Of course,” she said, letting out a long sigh, and smiling. “It’s a fine idea. You should listen to Doris.”

Malina had worries of her own, more than enough, and no desire to take on the worries of others. Laying her head back so as to avoid any more gaping mouths, Malina had stared at Grace Richardson sitting across the aisle. Looking straight ahead, her eyes seemingly focused on nothing, Grace had rubbed her two bare hands in slow, steady circles over her round stomach. Every so often, her eyelids slowly closed and took so long in opening again, Malina wondered each time if Grace were asleep. She didn’t wake from this stupor until Julia Wagner boarded the bus.

“Maybe those women will leave now that one of them is dead,” a lady had said as the bus pulled away from its stop outside the thrift store. “And you know, don’t you, that men have been fired. If there are no men left who will open a pocketbook, those women will all but vanish.”

“We shouldn’t be talking about this,” said another. “Think of Elizabeth. It’s all so unseemly. It’s disrespectful to her, don’t you think?”

And then the conversation turned to Jerry Lawson. By now, everyone knew, even those who lived blocks from Alder, that Jerry had been fired. What a shame for poor Betty Lawson. What was she to do now that she knew such things about her husband? What was that poor child to do? What was her name? Cynthia, wasn’t it? Poor Cynthia, all but abandoned. Jerry would be able to make no sort of living. The ladies next wondered aloud if it was only one woman for Jerry Lawson or if he took several. One would be worse than many, they all agreed, because if it were only one, that might mean he actually cared for her. My God, it might mean he actually cared.

“My Harry said the woman was killed with a hammer.” The lady’s name escaped Malina. She lived somewhere just north of Alder and rarely attended services. “Can you imagine? The police could tell, just by looking at the woman, that it was a hammer, or something much like it. How do you suppose they know such things? How does one look at a hole in the head and know what caused it?”

“What do you know of the dead woman?” Malina said, still watching Grace rub her hands lightly over her stomach as she chatted with Julia Wagner. The two were not listening to the ladies talk but were giggling among themselves.

“Why on earth would you ask?” several of the ladies said, one echoing another.

Malina gripped the seat in front of her, bracing herself as the bus neared its stop at Willingham. What must it look like when a person is hit in the head with a hammer? “Have you read anything? Have your husbands told you what she looked like?”

Doris Taylor pulled a tissue from her handbag, folded it, and blotted her fresh lipstick. “She was one of them. What more could possibly matter?”

There must have been a time when Mr. Herze’s girl looked like Grace Richardson. The girl probably rubbed her hands over her stomach and stared at nothing, her thoughts filled with dreams of a healthy, happy baby and a man to love her. If Mr. Herze’s girl were the dead one, what had become of the baby in the carriage? Malina had leafed through every newspaper that landed on her doorstep since the day that woman, some woman, was killed. She studied the papers until the ink stained her fingertips and the paper had torn at the fold, not certain why it mattered to her or why she craved any hint as to which woman had died. But every day the craving grew. Even if she knew, it wouldn’t help her predicament. No matter who died or who killed her, Malina had still told a lie.

“It’s no never mind,” Malina had said as the bus slowed to its stop at Woodward and Willingham. “I’ll see you ladies at the bakery in twenty minutes. What a fine idea you’ve had, Doris.”

As Malina nears the alley where the woman was killed, she walks mostly on her toes so her red leather heels don’t slap the concrete and give her away. At the alley’s entrance, she stops and tugs on her three-quarter-length sleeves. The saleslady at Hudson’s said not everyone could wear the new length but Malina, being as tiny as she is, would carry it beautifully.

For so much to have transpired since the woman was killed, the alley looks no different, except perhaps it appears smaller in the daylight, less foreboding. Seeing it again for the first time since that night, the alley isn’t so long and dark, and what had seemed like quite a distance when she was following that woman and her carriage is really no more than a few steps. For an instant, Malina is tempted to travel those few steps and look for the hammer she dropped. It would be a relief to have the proper tool hanging on Mr. Herze’s pegboard again, but that is foolish thinking. The police will have found that hammer, or possibly someone else found it, and whisked it away. Before temptation can again overwhelm her better judgment, Malina continues toward the river.

The colored women stand in a small group. A few of them sit on the curb, their long black legs stretched before them. Others sit cross-legged on the same curb, picking at blades of grass or their own unkempt nails. Still others stand in the middle of the street. There was a time, not so long ago, those women wouldn’t dare show themselves on Willingham Avenue. But the highways have pushed them west and north, and now every day they inch closer. Often they are seen lounging, waiting, biding their time until the ladies finish their shopping and leave for the day. They’ll all but take over on paydays, some of the ladies say, and that is likely the beginning of the end. Soon the ladies will be chased from Willingham just as they were chased from Beersdorf’s Grocery. Already some of the ladies have begun traveling to Hamtramck to do their shopping.

Standing on the outskirts of the group, almost as if she is not one of them, is the girl. Malina worried that she might not recognize her, but even from this distance, almost a full block away, there is no doubt. The girl has a kind of grace about her, probably due to her slender limbs and long neck. Wondering if the girl has smooth skin, Malina takes a few more steps toward the group. Slowly, as if the girl senses someone staring at her, her head rolls to the side and she looks back at Malina. Other heads turn. A few of the women push themselves off the ground. Others cross arms over their chests.

A tall, round woman with heavy legs sticking out from a black skirt stands in the center of the group. She has narrow shoulders, flabby arms, and surprisingly large hips. Like the others, she turns to face Malina, but even as she turns, the large woman doesn’t move the hand that clutches the handle of a baby carriage. This woman is much taller than the one who frightened Malina in the alley that night, though she does bear the same unfortunate shape. The woman takes a step toward Malina, and yet she doesn’t let go of the carriage. She is protecting it, protecting the baby inside, from Malina.

There couldn’t possibly be more than one such carriage. The one parked in the middle of the street has the same large metal wheels, the same black canopy, and if Malina could get close enough, it would have the same squeal as the one the girl pushed. This large woman, however, is built like someone who has birthed a baby-full roomy hips, soft sagging arms. It hadn’t seemed possible Mr. Herze’s girl could be the mother. Her hips were narrow; her legs, frail and lean. That night on Willingham, the girl must have been watching over the baby, doing a favor for the real mother. It makes sense she would be kind. Mr. Herze likes proper manners and polite conversation. He appreciates kindness. His girl is graceful and considerate. It shouldn’t be a surprise. While Mr. Herze’s girl is clearly not the dead one, there is no need to peek inside that carriage.

Back on Willingham, the ladies will be finishing their shopping. They’ll gather now inside Nowack’s Bakery, where they’ll buy up all the apple cakes. It’s the thing Mrs. Nowack bakes every Monday and probably what drew many of the ladies to Willingham today when they might otherwise have preferred to stay away. Malina will want to get to the bakery to buy one of the cakes for Mr. Herze before they’re gone. He does like a slice, lightly dusted with confectioner’s sugar, before bed. Once Doris Taylor and the others have had their say with Mrs. Nowack, no one will be buying anything.

Malina should feel some relief that the child is not Mr. Herze’s doing, but there’s still the matter of Jerry Lawson pointing at her and accusing her. He might storm across the street again, give Mr. Herze reason to doubt Malina. She really does wish she hadn’t lied. After a few backward steps, those Negro women staring at her all the while, Malina swings around, no longer concerned if her heels slap loudly against the concrete, and walks back to Willingham and Nowack’s Bakery as quickly as her slender skirt and three-quarter-sleeve jacket will allow.

Two weeks before Grace was to marry James, Mother said it was high time Grace learn to make pierogi. Mother stood at Grace’s stove and shook her head. “Butter will scorch,” she had said, and slid the pan of simmering onions to a cool burner. They tried again two days later. What else could Grace offer if not a warm supper every night? On the second day, Grace strained the cooked potatoes, pouring the water down the drain. Again, Mother shook her head. Her recipe said to retain the water from the cooked potatoes. Grace boiled a half-dozen more and Mother sighed at the waste. Mother gave up after the third try, when Grace added too much filling to the pierogi. Grace crimped the edges with a knuckle as she had seen Mother do, but she had rolled the dough too thin, and each crescent-shaped dumpling split when she dropped it into the boiling pot. Cheesy potato filling clouded the water.

“What else have you to offer?”

Setting a bowl of pierogi dough on the kitchen table where she can lean over it and use her weight, Grace presses, folds and turns the dough, presses, folds and turns. Mother’s dough is always smooth and elastic. Grace’s sticks to her fingers in heavy white clumps. Stepping off the early-morning bus that returned her to Alder well ahead of the other ladies, Grace had thought the cooler, drier air of early day would help her dough. If this batch of pierogi turns out well, she’ll send them to the church with James and then make and freeze more for the bake sale. She adds another spoonful of flour, and with the heel of her hand, begins again. Hearing a shout from the back alley, she straightens, nearly knocking the bowl to the floor.

“You better come on out of there.” And then, “Got myself a rifle…”

With the back of one sticky hand, Grace first pushes aside the curtains in the back door, and even knowing he won’t be there, she looks for James. There is more shouting, though this time, it isn’t a man’s voice. Grace wipes her hands on her apron as she sidesteps to the kitchen window, picking blobs of dough from between her fingers as she goes. Smoke rolls out of the garage in a thin plume. Now she considers the telephone, but there is no number to call for James. He’ll be out on Woodward or down near the river, hoping not to find a body that has floated to the surface. She throws open the back door.

“It’s us, Mr. Schofield.” Again, a girl’s voice. “It’s only us.”

In the alley near Grace’s garage, Orin Schofield stands, a rifle of some sort braced against his shoulder. The rising smoke has changed from white to black.

“Orin,” Grace shouts. “Put that away.”

Walking in a wide arch that keeps her far from the open garage and clear of Orin’s aim, Grace waves away the smell of the smoke. She used to close the garage door for James every morning. After he’d leave for work, she would finish washing the breakfast dishes and then wander through the backyard, maybe pulling a weed or two, watering her bushes, snapping off her marigolds’ brown, withered blossoms, and eventually close the garage door. She didn’t follow him this morning, might never follow him again.

“Who is it?” Grace shouts into the garage. “Who’s in there?”

The girls appear, one dragging the other by the arm. That’s Izzy in front and Arie trailing behind.

“We didn’t do it,” Izzy says, moving away from the black smoke.

The rising column has thinned. Orange sparks flutter into the air and die out.

“It’s the trash can,” Izzy says. “It’s a fire in the trash can.”

“Orin,” Grace shouts again, waving the girls toward her. “Put that gun away. Girls, here. Come here. Orin, it’s Izzy and Arie.”

Orin stands on the other side of the smoky cloud. He taps the side of the garage with the barrel of his rifle. “Come on out,” he shouts. “Come out of that goddamned garage.”

“Orin, please.” Grace gathers the twins under the maple. She runs her hands over their arms, cups the face of each and scans them for any sign they’ve been hurt. “Stay here,” she says, pushing away Arie’s hand when she tries to grab Grace by the arm.

The crack of the rifle makes Grace stumble. She grabs for the baby. An instinct. Next she reaches for the girls. They run to her, together scooping Grace, one on each side. Another shot. Grace is back on her feet. She corrals the girls, pulls them close. They huddle together under the hard maple, all three inhaling what the others exhale. As the silence widens, Grace straightens to her full height. She brushes back the girls hair, checks them over again. One of the girls, Izzy because Arie wouldn’t be so bold, hugs Grace’s stomach and presses an ear over the baby.

On the other side of the alley, Mr. Williamson stomps out his side door and across his backyard but slows when he sees Orin, a gun to his shoulder, his cheek resting against the wooden handle. Though he no longer has a job to go to, Mr. Williamson dresses every morning in a shirt and tie, belted trousers, and his calfskin wingtips. His silver hair is as thick as the day Grace met him and is smoothed back and held in place by a hair dressing. Probably Top Brass, the same as James uses. Mrs. Williamson follows her husband, but stops near her clothesline. As always, a blue scarf covers her thinning white hair, and the bib apron hanging loosely from her neck has been left untied at the waist. Mr. Williamson stops short of reaching Orin and doesn’t move any closer until the gun’s barrel begins to sink.

“What are you shooting at there, Orin?” Mr. Williamson says.

“Someone’s in there.” Orin waves the gun’s narrow tip at the garage. He stumbles as if he’s dizzy. His eyes settle on Grace and the twins, all three still standing in a cluster, their arms intertwined. His cheeks and nose are red. He brushes away sweat that drips down his temples. “Look at that right there.” He stabs the gun toward the garage, stumbles again. “I told you, didn’t I? Those two started a fire.”

The smoke coming from the garage has thinned to little more than a trickle. Mr. Williamson takes another few steps toward Orin.

“Think whoever stirred up this trouble is long gone by now,” Mr. Williamson says. “How about you let me have that gun of yours?”

“I heard them. Heard them tossing things about.” Orin swings around to face Grace and the twins. The rifle swings around too. “You done this,” he says. “You two girls.”

Izzy starts to say something, but Grace gives her a squeeze, silencing her.

“I seen it with my own eyes,” Orin says, shaking his head as if clearing his thoughts.

“Say, why not let me take a look at this for you,” Mr. Williamson says as he edges up next to Orin, then lays one flat palm on the gun’s barrel and slowly forces it toward the ground. “You know I clean all my own guns.” When the barrel’s tip points directly at the ground, Mr. Williamson eases the gun from Orin. “I’ll give it a good once-over and get it back to you lickety-split. Even bring one of Martha’s cobblers when I return it.”

Orin stares at the gun as it passes into Mr. Williamson’s hands.

When the gun is safely with Mr. Williamson, Izzy shakes loose of Grace and looks her straight in the eye. “We didn’t do anything. We didn’t start that fire. I promise. Please, you can’t tell Aunt Julia. We didn’t, I promise.”

“You two set that fire at my place. Broke my goddamned windows, too.”

“No, that’s not true,” Izzy says. “None of that’s true. We wanted to hide, that’s all. We saw Mr. Schofield’s chair in the alley and didn’t want him to catch us. Right, Arie? Isn’t that true? Please, Mrs. Richardson. Don’t tell.”

“It’s the coloreds, then,” Orin says, pushing Mr. Williamson aside so he can see down the alley. “Every day, they’re coming through here. Coloreds starting fires and breaking windows.”

Grace grabs one of the twins, takes no time to decide which one. “Did you see them?” she says.

The girl’s eyes shine and she tries to pull away, but Grace squeezes tighter. Arie. The other twin, Izzy, grabs at Grace’s arm to drag her away.

“Did you see those men?” Grace shouts.

With both hands, Izzy pulls at Grace’s arm. “We didn’t see anyone, Mrs. Richardson. We didn’t see anyone and we didn’t start any fire.”

“I suppose it’s best we all calm ourselves,” Mr. Williamson says. “Let’s not look to stir up trouble we don’t need. How about we get you home, Orin?”

“By God, I’m not going anywhere,” Orin says. “My chair. Sit me down right there.”

“Why don’t you ladies go on inside,” Mr. Williamson says. He winks in Grace’s direction and tugs at his tie though it doesn’t need straightening. “I’ll see that the fire is out. Doesn’t appear any harm’s been done.”

Grace loosens her grip on Arie. “I’m so sorry,” she says, rubbing the red spot on Arie’s slender shoulder. “Come, girls.” She wraps an arm around each, nods her thanks to Mr. and Mrs. Williamson, and walks the twins to the side of the house. She’ll take them inside, wash their faces with a cool cloth, call Julia to come fetch them. She should probably feed them something, a peanut-butter sandwich, and give them milk to drink. Someone may call the police. They may come and look inside her garage.

“We’re fine, Mrs. Richardson,” Izzy says, reaching for Arie’s hand and yanking her away from the stairs leading into Grace’s kitchen. “We’ll go home now, straight home.”

“We should wait for your aunt. I can’t let you go alone.”

Izzy continues to pull Arie down the driveway toward the street.

“She’s out shopping. We’re fine. We’ll go straight home. We didn’t start that fire, Mrs. Richardson. I promise we didn’t.”

“I’ll walk with you,” Grace says.

“No,” Izzy says, holding up one hand to stop Grace from following. “Straight home, I promise.”

Arie says nothing and every time Grace looks her way, she drops her eyes or looks off to the side. While Izzy is clearly afraid of what Julia will have to say should she find out the twins disobeyed her, Arie is frightened of something else. It’s almost as if she is frightened of Grace.

“Please,” Izzy says one more time. “Please don’t tell.”

Grace lifts a hand and points. “Straight home, you two. And until Elizabeth is found, please stay there.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Arie and Izzy run all the way to Aunt Julia’s house, not once looking back at Mrs. Richardson. They drop the length of rope on the front porch, flip off their sneakers at the back door, and run through the kitchen and up the stairs, even though running is not allowed in the house. They toss the slender, jeweled belt in their bedroom closet, change into clean blouses that won’t smell of smoke, and return to the living room. While Izzy acts as lookout for Aunt Julia, Arie sinks into the sofa, hugs one of Aunt Julia’s ruffled throw pillows to her chest, and takes deep breaths until her heart begins to slow. The pillow smells like the cologne Uncle Bill wears to church, and it makes her feel even worse for having done something she knows will scare him and Aunt Julia. They’ll worry Izzy and Arie are going to end up like Elizabeth because they won’t stay inside and do as they’re told.

“Do you see her?” Arie says for the third time in twenty minutes.

Izzy lifts a finger, signaling Arie should wait. Alder Avenue has been quiet since a group of ladies marched down the street almost half an hour ago, their arms full of groceries. Aunt Julia was not among them.

“No,” Izzy says, “But there’s men at Mrs. Herze’s house now. Looks like police.”

Arie jumps from the sofa and joins Izzy at the window. Across the street, two men in dark suits stand on Mrs. Herze’s porch and a police car is parked in her driveway.

“Is that about the fire?” Arie says. “Are they here because of us?”

“Uh-oh,” Izzy says, letting the drape fall closed and pushing Arie back to her seat.

Uncle Bill never uses the driveway. He always circles the block, drives up the alley, and parks in the garage. But that’s his car pulling into the driveway and that’s Aunt Julia sitting next to him. An engine rattles and falls silent. Two doors slam. Footsteps, one light set, one heavy set, cross the front porch. Izzy and Arie sit side by side on the sofa, hands in their laps, feet dangling near the floor. Keys rattle in the front lock. The door swings open.

Aunt Julia is the first inside. Her hair has frizzed since she left the house this morning. Later in the day, when she tires of trying to tame it with pins and hairspray and it becomes a tangle of wild red hair, she’ll tie a scarf over it. She holds one bag of groceries that she tosses on the entry table before rushing into the living room. Behind her, Uncle Bill carries a few more bags, but he doesn’t toss his aside.

“You were shot at?” Aunt Julia says, first grabbing Arie and then Izzy. Like Mrs. Richardson did, she pushes the hair off their faces to check for cuts or bruises, trails her fingers along their arms, rolls their hands from front to back. “You’re not hurt?”

“He didn’t really shoot at…”

“Stop,” Aunt Julia says. “Not another word. You were forbidden… forbidden to leave this house.” She stands and paces the length of the sofa. Whenever Aunt Julia gets angry, her voice slips back to where it’s most comfortable. Her Southern twang, Uncle Bill likes to call it. “I told you, didn’t I? Didn’t I make it clear? Didn’t I make it crystal clear? My God, that bowed-up fool shot at you?”

Arie waits for Izzy to answer, but even she must have decided it best to keep quiet.

“Well,” Aunt Julia says. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

“We were only looking for Patches,” Izzy says. “We’ll never find her if we can’t go outside.”

“Don’t you dare get smart with me.”

Uncle Bill walks to the entry, sets his groceries next to the bag Aunt Julia dropped, and returns. He rests his hands on Aunt Julia’s shoulders. His dark eyes always have a way of looking sad. Grandma says those dark, sad eyes are what snagged Aunt Julia. Grandma says women, all ages and all types, have a softness for sad eyes.

“Why don’t you two go out front for a few minutes,” Uncle Bill says, leaning around Aunt Julia. He is the only one who makes Aunt Julia look small. “Let me and your aunt talk in private.”

Arie waits for Izzy to stand first, then follows her to the front door.

“Do not even think about leaving that yard,” Aunt Julia says, swatting away Uncle Bill’s hands and flopping down on the center of the sofa. “Am I understood?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Izzy says.

“Yes, ma’am,” Arie says.

Izzy gives an extra tug on the front door to make sure it’s closed and lets the screen door slam, something she knows will upset Aunt Julia. The men and the police car are no longer at Mrs. Herze’s house. Arie exhales, thinking that is a good sign, then drops down on the first stair and slides over to make room for Izzy. But instead of joining Arie, Izzy grabs the rope she found in Mrs. Richardson’s garage and marches across the porch. Mrs. Richardson had been too worried about the fire and gunshots at her house to notice the rope Izzy had carried from the garage or the thin belt that had been wrapped like a bandage around Arie’s hand. Once down the stairs, Izzy walks to the very end of the sidewalk. She stands there, hands on hips, and even though she doesn’t say it, she’s thinking about stepping from their yard onto Alder and disobeying Aunt Julia all over again. Aunt Julia would say Izzy is chugged-full of angry, though Arie isn’t exactly sure about what.

Taking one end of the rope in each hand, Izzy lets it hang to the ground and, with a single swing, begins to skip. She twirls the rope faster and faster, slapping it against the hot concrete, probably thinking the noise will make Aunt Julia mad too, except it really isn’t all that loud.

Across the street at Mr. and Mrs. Herze’s house, a big blue car pulls into their drive. One of the car’s doors swings open and a black shoe appears. The rest of Mr. Herze follows. Without closing his door, he walks down the driveway using long strides, crosses the street, and marches directly up to Arie and Izzy. They’ve never been so close to Mr. Herze. He smells like Uncle Bill’s Sunday cologne, except much stronger, and his stomach pushes against his white shirt, making it look like his buttons might pop right off if he were to take a deep breath. He examines the girls just as Mrs. Richardson and Aunt Julia did, except when his hands run over their arms, they’re rough and dry and cold even though it’s hot outside.

“Your uncle is home, girls?” he says, brushing aside Izzy’s hair and then Arie’s. “You’re unharmed?”

“Yes, sir,” Izzy says.

Arie says nothing but slides one foot away and drags the other to meet it.

“Warren,” Mrs. Herze calls out from her side of the street. “What’s brought you home so early?” She waves one hand overhead and teeters on the edge of the curb. Her dark hair makes her white skin look plastic. Everything about Mrs. Herze shines like it’s store-bought.

Mr. Herze doesn’t answer. His eyes dart back and forth between Izzy and Arie. “Don’t let that Orin Schofield frighten you,” he says, his eyes landing on Izzy and sticking there. “He actually take a shot at you?”

“Not at us, sir,” Izzy says. “At the garage. In the dirt. Don’t think he meant to hurt anyone.”

“Shall I fix you something, Warren?” Mrs. Herze shouts, louder this time. She takes one step into the street. “A sandwich?” She continues to wave a hand overhead. “Are you at all hungry?”

“You tell your uncle to stay home with you girls for the rest of the day,” Mr. Herze says, his eyes still stuck on Izzy. “Tell him Mr. Herze said so.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And if you two find yourselves in any more trouble, you let me know.”

Again, “Yes, sir.”

“Warren, will you want dinner? A change of clothes?”

“All right, then.” Mr. Herze takes each of them by the hand, gives a squeeze, drops Arie’s, still holds Izzy’s. “You two take care.”

Arie pulls Izzy by the arm. Mr. Herze’s hand drops away.

“Anything at all,” he says, reaching out to grab Izzy’s fingers but unable to reach them. “You call on me.”

“Thank you, Mr. Herze,” Izzy says, stumbling as Arie drags her toward the front door.

“We’ll tell Uncle Bill you were here,” Arie says, not sure why she says it or why she is suddenly happy Uncle Bill is much stronger and much bigger than Mr. Herze.

Grace leans against her kitchen counter, six slices of white bread laid out before her like playing cards, and wonders again if she made a mistake letting the twins go home to an empty house. This is usually the busiest part of Grace’s day. She likes to get her chores done before the lunch hour and save her afternoons to tidy the house and touch up her makeup before James comes home. Puttering, Mother always called it. Grace likes to leave her puttering to the afternoons. At this earlier hour, there would normally be laundry to hang out, groceries to put away, a supper to begin planning. But today, she forgot to start any laundry and didn’t bother with the market. Nearby, the stand mixer runs on low. Grace pours a stream of oil into the bowl and as the mixer churns, she begins to count to thirty. Her thoughts drift. She loses track and begins again. Give it thirty seconds, Mother always says.

Grace didn’t call James after Orin Schofield fired his rifle into their garage, but she knew someone would find him and send him home. It’s just as well. He promised to take Grace’s tuna salad back to the church so the men could have a quick sandwich for lunch. It’s one of those dishes Grace can always count on to turn out well. Warm air rushes into the kitchen when the back door swings open. James follows, nearly falling as he rushes across the threshold. Four long strides carry him to Grace, his footsteps clicking on the gray tile floor. He’s picked up a speck of gravel or a stone in the sole of his shoe.

James says nothing at first, but as Grace did with the girls, he cups her cheeks, looks her over from head to toe, smooths damp strands of hair from her face.

“You’re all right?”

She touches his square jaw. It’s rough because he didn’t bother to shave this morning.

“I’m fine,” she says, and rests one hand on the baby. “We’re fine.” She watches as oil blends with the eggs and lemon juice.

Knowing James would come home to check on her, Grace had run a brush through her hair and freshened her lipstick and powder. She knew the glow of her hair when it’s newly brushed and the shine on her cheeks that comes with a dab of rouge would reassure him.

“It was a silly misunderstanding,” she says, drawing one finger through the mayonnaise and touching it to James’s lips.

He’s angry; of course he’s angry. He storms about the kitchen, nearly knocking over a chair, stopping several times to stare out the window over the sink, hoping, just hoping, to catch sight of Orin Schofield. He’s outraged. Gunfire at his own home. The police should come and have a word with Orin, but Grace says no. Orin shot into the dirt. He was really quite deliberate. He meant no harm. And a good scare might be just what those girls need. The real danger is how they disobey Julia and Bill.

“And the fire?” James says, wrapping his arms around Grace’s full belly. “What happened with the fire?” He has exhausted himself, stomping and ranting. He leans into Grace, lets his face sink into her hair, and breathes in. With each movement, the stone wedged in his shoe still taps.

Grace shuts off her mixer and pulls a warm hardboiled egg from the pot on the stove. She taps it lightly on the edge of the sink, giving herself time to think.

“The girls,” she says, scratching at the cracked shell with one fingernail and peeling it back. The white of the egg tears away with the thin shell. She should have cooled them first. “I think the girls were playing with fireworks.” The lie comes quickly, easily. “It really only simmered. Burned itself out. I promised them I wouldn’t tell Julia.” With a paring knife, she slices through the firm, slippery egg white and pops the sliver in James’s mouth. “You’re sweet to worry so. Mr. Williamson took the gun. It won’t happen again.”

James slides around Grace so he can stand at the window. He doesn’t notice the clicking sound his shoe continues to make or he would dig out the gravel with a nail or one of Grace’s steak knives. He is watching out that window for Orin or maybe for the colored men who walk down the alley. He’ll be wondering if those men are really the ones who started the fire. If Grace thinks it, James will think it too.

“What is that?” Grace says, pointing at James’s back pocket.

“Found it in the garage.” He pulls out a white shoe.

It’s a woman’s shoe. Two-inch heel. Everyday wear. It’s crushed and marred with black smudges. It’s Grace’s.

“Sorry,” he says. “Must have run it over.”

Grace takes the shoe by its cracked heel. After the men had gone, leaving her alone in the garage, she limped back to the house. She had walked on the toe of her bare foot, her nylon surely snagging, because on the other, she wore a heel. Always so forgetful. She should have remembered the shoe and thrown it away with the glass she and Mother picked up from the garage floor.

“It must have been in with the things Mr. Symanski brought,” she says. Another lie, quickly, easily. “Ewa’s, I suppose.”

“Probably right.”

James holds a can of tuna beneath the opener hung from the underside of a cabinet. “I don’t want you going out back anymore. Definitely don’t want you near Orin Schofield.” Then he locks the can in place and cranks the silver handle. “No reason for you even to go into the garage.”

Grace drops three diced eggs into her largest bowl but is unsure how much relish to add. She’s never made such a large batch. James dumps the tuna into the same bowl, sets the empty can on the counter, and leads Grace to the table, where he helps her to sit.

“I talked to a fellow today,” he says, pacing between the sink and table. His shoe clicks, though not as loudly, as if the stone has worked its way up into the tread. “He was down at the church, speaking with a lot of folks. I talked to him about selling the house. He says plenty of folks are ready to sell since Elizabeth disappeared. Says he’s had a dozen calls. Felt bad talking to him, what with Elizabeth still out there.”

The last time Grace heard tapping on her kitchen floor, she had been afraid it would wake Betty Lawson’s baby. She had been sleeping in the far corner while the ladies of the St. Alban’s Charitable Ventures Committee chatted in Grace’s living room.

“We can’t be the last to give it serious thought.” James drops into a seat and scoots his chair under the table. “Gracie, you listening?”

“We can’t leave Mr. Symanski,” Grace says. “Not now. What if Elizabeth comes home and we’re gone?”

Grace wants to believe the words, tries to speak them with the soft tenderness she thinks her voice should have, but they come out flat and hollow, each word too deep, too loud. She knows Elizabeth will never come home.

“I’m sorry to say it,” James says. “And I won’t say it to Charles, but I can’t have you living here. It’s not safe anymore.”

Grace shifts in her seat. Though her inner thighs still ache and her tailbone is yet tender, the small cut on her lip has almost healed over. It’s little more than a red blemish that might be mistaken for a smudge of lipstick. James doesn’t ask about it anymore.

“The agent says he’s bound to sell a lot of houses around here,” James continues. “Says folks will eventually start to worry. Can’t wait around, he says. Nobody wants to be the last to get out. Says those folks moving in at the Filmore are a sure sign of what’s to come. He’ll swing by in a few days. Give the place a once-over.”

James opens five more cans of tuna and Grace makes two dozen sandwiches, cuts them on the diagonal, and covers them with plastic wrap. As she works, James talks about where they might move. Well north of Eight Mile. Lots of folks are moving out there. It’ll be a three-bedroom ranch with wall-to-wall carpet and a double sink in the kitchen. Can be expensive, though, so he can’t make any promises. Drive won’t be so bad, not since the highway went in. He’ll give Grace everything she wants, everything she needs. A lawn, bigger than this one. Nice neighbors, too, with kids, lots of kids. And the buses run up north, so no need for Grace to worry. Or maybe it’s high time she take another stab at learning to drive.

“I won’t stop looking for Elizabeth,” he says, and lifts her face to his. “No matter where we go, I won’t stop looking until we find her.” Then he places both hands on either side of Grace’s large stomach and slides them up to her face and again tilts it to his. His eyelids are heavy. No doubt, he’s thinking about the day Grace isn’t pregnant anymore and he can be with her as only a husband is allowed.

“Will the agent put a sign in our yard, bring strangers through the house?” Grace pulls away slowly and begins to put clean dishes in her cupboards.

“If he likes this old girl enough, if the house is solid, he might buy her himself,” James says, walking toward the back door. His shoe continues to click. “Be best that way. No need to get the neighbors worried. He’d give us a nice price too. We’d be out of here before you know it. Even before the baby is born.” He opens the door, tugs on his hat, pulls it low over his eyes. “But I won’t stop until we find something.”

“She wasn’t wearing those sneakers,” Grace says.

James pushes the door closed. “Who?”

“She was tapping,” Grace says, pointing at James’s black steel-toed boots. “Like you are now. Tapping because she wore her black leather shoes. Elizabeth always wore them with her lavender dress, with any of her nicer dresses. That wasn’t her shoe they found.”

“It’s something,” James says. “We’ll tell them, tell the police. But I don’t think they ever made much of a single shoe. It could have belonged to anyone.”

“I don’t think Elizabeth wandered away, James,” Grace says. “I think something bad, very bad, happened to her. I think she’ll never come home.”

“Don’t you worry,” James says. “We’ll find her. You trust me, don’t you?”

“Most definitely,” she says, sliding a foot to the right so the light shining through the front window catches her hair. If it glows and her lips shine, James will feel better.

Because he’s so very glad Grace is unharmed, James smiles. The whole drive home he probably imagined what his life would be like without Grace and his baby. The thought surely frightened him, but seeing Grace now, he is reassured life works out for the best. Mother is right. James doesn’t want to hear the truth and Grace can never tell.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The moment the twins have left the house and Bill has closed the front door behind them, Julia kicks off her shoes, hikes her skirt over her knees, and runs up the steps two at a time, not caring that she’ll snag her nylons. Once upstairs, she throws open the girls’ bedroom door, yanks Arie’s suitcase from under her bed, and flings it into the center of her mattress.

“Don’t say a word,” she says when Bill enters the room. She pulls open the dresser’s top drawer, scoops an armful of undergarments and socks and flings them into the open suitcase. “They’re going back to my mother’s.”

Bill moves in front of the dresser, not allowing Julia to open the next drawer. “Your mother is not there, remember?”

Dropping one shoulder, Julia rams it into Bill’s side, trying to move him. He crosses his arms. “I’m not budging, and the girls are not leaving,” he says, and once Julia begins to simmer down, he rests his hands on her shoulders.

“Can you imagine what might have happened?” Julia says. Edging away from Bill, she flips the suitcase closed and drops onto the bed. Her skirt hugs her thighs well above her knees from her trek up the stairs. She tugs and wiggles until she has yanked it back into place. “Who on God’s green earth fires a rifle at two young girls?”

“You know he wasn’t firing at them.” Bill sits next to Julia but not so close as to let their legs touch. He always knows when best to keep his distance.

“I know no such thing,” Julia says. “You didn’t hear him caterwauling the other day.”

“I’ll speak to the girls,” Bill says, patting Julia’s hand. “We should make sure they keep clear of Orin for a while. But I’d guess the fright they got will do the best job of keeping them close to home.”

Julia slides off the bed, drops to her knees in front of Bill, and takes his hands in hers. “That’s not enough,” she says. “They’re going to be our responsibility one day. You know they’re getting to be too much for my mother. If not now, then soon enough.”

“Yes,” Bill says. “And I’ll be happy to have them.”

“We need to move,” she says. “Right now. Sell this house and move. Our own neighbors are firing on us.”

Bill shakes his head. “You’re overreacting.”

“Why shouldn’t we move?” Julia lifts up and rests her hands on Bill’s chest. “We’ll never be comfortable having a family here. And what about a baby? I know you wouldn’t want to bring a baby into this neighborhood. It’s not the same as it used to be. Even after Elizabeth finds her way back…”

“This is no time to think about a baby.”

“It’s the perfect time,” Julia says “Our baby and Grace’s, growing up together. Perfect. No matter where we live, it’ll be wonderful. We could adopt like Jerry and Betty. She’s not admitting it, but I know that’s what they did. We could go to Kansas City. The train, it’ll take us straight into Union Station. You were a good father to Maryanne. Why don’t you want that again? Did you not love her?”

“What did you say to me?”

Bill doesn’t make a motion toward her, doesn’t lift a hand or make a fist, but something in the room shifts and it feels as if he wants to slap her.

“There has to be some reason,” Julia says, leaning back and resting on her knees again. “Is that it? Did you not love Maryanne?”

“You think I didn’t love our daughter?”

“Is it me? Do you think I wouldn’t be a good mother? Do you think I’m to blame for what’s happened to Elizabeth too? That I’m unfit?”

“I think Elizabeth Symanski won’t ever come home,” he says. “Everybody knows it and nobody’s saying it. I’ve been up and down Woodward, me and others, more times than I can count. We’ve been through every neighborhood within five miles. We’ve talked to every employee in every store, in every restaurant, in every bar. We’ve been through every park and talked to every neighbor. We’ve asked them all, Julia, and not a single person remembers seeing her that day.”

“Stop,” Julia says. “You stop saying that.”

“You know how Elizabeth walks. She’d run into folks, people would notice. But no one, Julia. No one even thought they might have seen her. We have list after list of every person we’ve talked to. And not a single one. She didn’t wander away. She didn’t walk down the streets on her own. Someone took her, Julia. Took her away, and that’s why no one has seen her. Probably swept her up in a car and drove off. If not right here on Alder, then somewhere close. If she’d have wandered off like before, someone would have seen her. Someone would remember. But one thing’s for damned sure. Bringing a baby into this house won’t bring her back.”

“Of course she’ll come home. She’ll find her way. You’ll keep looking and you’ll find her.”

Bill shakes his head. “She’s gone, Julia. And I hate to think what became of her.”

“Don’t you say that. Don’t you dare say that.”

“Nobody is blaming you, Julia. You’re doing that to yourself. But now is the time to be thinking about the girls. Time we think about keeping them safe.”

“And you think I don’t want that?”

“They’re most important now. Those girls and you too.” Bill pushes away Julia’s hands and stands. “It’s no time to think about bringing a baby into this house. Not my own, and damned sure not one born of another man.”

Malina waves a hand overhead and walks toward Mr. Herze’s car as he climbs inside. Across the street, the twins are backing up the sidewalk leading to Julia’s porch. It doesn’t seem possible that, even from this distance, Malina can smell Mr. Herze’s girl. The odor must have leaked from inside his car when he opened the door. Whether or not it’s Malina’s imagination, eventually the smell will come home again with Mr. Herze because his girl is not the dead one.

“Won’t you come inside for a bite to eat?” she calls out yet again.

Mr. Herze’s large blue sedan backs down the driveway and into the street. One long arm reaches out the driver’s-side window and waves at the girls. Malina steps over her hedge of snapdragons, all of them wilting with the heavy watering she gave them this morning. She teeters on one heel, nearly twisting an ankle before she marches off the curb and into the street.

“Hurry home,” she shouts. “I’m planning a lovely roast tonight. Hurry home.”

Standing in the middle of the street, Mr. Herze’s sedan having reached the end of Alder Avenue, where it will idle at the stop sign before turning right, Malina stares at Julia’s house and at the twins standing in the front yard. Such a thin line between girls and young women. Malina has seen it before, the subtle pleasantries that morph so slowly into something else that others don’t recognize it, won’t recognize it. They think Mr. Herze is a kind man, giving, thoughtful-charming, even. The other girls, women, didn’t have the twins’ good fortune. These girls will leave in a few short weeks, possibly sooner. By now, they’ve already been here several days. Soon they’ll be gone. It’s nothing to worry about.

“You girls,” Malina shouts.

Together, the girls look Malina’s way.

“Do you see these flowers?”

“Yes, ma’am,” they say together, one speaking over the other.

“I have to plant more. Several dozen more. And do you two know why I must plant more?”

“Yes, ma’am,” one of the twins says. “Aunt Julia told us someone peed on your flowers.”

“Watch your tongue, young lady. And these are snapdragons, not just any old flowers.”

“Sorry. Aunt Julia told us someone peed on your snapdragons.”

“And you’ve trampled them too.”

“No, ma’am.” It’s the one who’s fresh most days, not as polite as the other one. “We didn’t do either. You can’t blame us for that.”

Malina squints to get a good look at them. She doubles up both fists, plants them at her waist, and leans forward so the girls will know she’s quite serious. “See to it you stay away from my flowers,” she says. “Do you understand? Stay away from my yard.” The girls nod and have the good sense to say nothing more. And then, because it certainly couldn’t hurt, she says, “And stay away from Mr. Herze.”

The girls nod and one drags the other onto the porch. “Yes, ma’am,” one of them says while the other pulls open the screen door.

“Hold on there,” Malina says. “Did you two see those men here at my house?”

One of the girls drops the screen door, letting it slam shut, and they both nod.

“That’s none of your business,” Malina says. “Do you understand me? They were here mistakenly. Don’t you go spreading rumors. Do you understand?”

Another nod and the girls run inside, again letting the screen slap shut.

After returning from her morning shopping on Willingham Avenue, Malina had unpacked her groceries and set to work on her carrot cakes. Because the bake sale was postponed, she had time for more baking, but really, it’s the icing that takes so long. Her carrot cakes always bring a hefty price and people expect a lovely scalloped edge when they are paying good money. She was in the middle of grating her third carrot when she heard a knock at the front door.

“How may I help you?” Malina had said, brushing her hands together. A few orange carrot slivers fluttered to the ground.

Two men, each wearing a dark gray suit and a necktie that was entirely too wide, stood on the porch. At the sight of Malina, they removed their hats. Both were rather short, and if it weren’t for their handsome dark suits, a person might have considered them scrawny.

“Detective Warren,” the fair-haired officer said, and dipped his chin. Perspiration stained the tips of his yellow hair. He tossed his head in the direction of the taller man standing next to him. “And this is Detective Burrows. Like to ask a few questions, ma’am.”

“Certainly,” she said. “Though I don’t know how much more I can tell you. The other officers, the dark-haired officers, I told them all that I know.” Pulling a handkerchief from her skirt pocket, Malina tapped it to her chest and neck. The bodice was a rather snug fit, but it did create a lovely silhouette. “Not that I knew much, mind you. My husband knows Charles, Mr. Symanski, much better than I. They worked together, you know, before Charles retired. I was a new bride then.” She smiled and winked at the man with the silky blond hair. “It’s been more than twenty-five years. I married quite young.”

The eyes of the sweet blond detective followed the tissue as Malina tapped it against her moist skin.

“And what of the Lawsons?” the taller officer said. His hair was an ordinary brown color, straight and cropped in a harsh line that fell just above his eyes.

“The Lawsons?” Malina said, tucking her chin.

“Yes, ma’am. On the evening of June fourth, a Wednesday evening, Mr. Lawson reports that he saw you on the street, rather late at night. And that you saw him, as well. Do you recall that evening?”

“Well, that’s ridiculous. Why on earth would I be out late at night? That’s simply not true.”

The ordinary detective placed his hat on his head and tugged it low. “So you weren’t driving toward Woodward between ten thirty and eleven o’clock on the evening of June fourth?”

“I don’t drive at night. The glare, it troubles me. It has for years.”

“He is out often, we understand, this Mr. Lawson,” the yellow-haired officer said. “Other neighbors have reported that he is often on the street late at night, keeping watch while his wife walks their child.”

“The baby only recently came to live with them,” Malina said. And then she whispered, “Adopted.”

“And in the time since the baby’s arrival, you have known Mrs. Lawson to walk the child at night and Mr. Lawson to watch over from the end of his drive?” The yellow-haired detective pointed across the street toward the end of the Lawsons’ driveway. “From there?”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t know the first thing about the nightly routines of the Lawsons.”

“It’s odd, don’t you think?” the yellow-haired officer said, speaking more to his partner than to Malina.

“What’s that?”

The yellow-haired officer tilted his head to one side and studied the front of the Lawsons’ house. “Why do you suppose Mr. Lawson doesn’t walk along?” he said. “With his wife? Why not join her? If his intent is to ensure her and the child’s safety, why not walk along?”

Malina laughed. “I’ve an easy answer for that. He is never dressed in more than shorts and an undershirt. I’m quite certain the neighborhood wouldn’t stand for his gallivanting around in such attire. He’s really quite ridiculous.”

“So you have seen him?” the ordinary detective said. “Mr. Lawson on the street? Wearing his ridiculous shorts and undershirt?”

Malina pinched her brow before realizing the unsightly creases she was causing. “I don’t know what you expect me to say.”

“We don’t expect anything, ma’am. But think for a moment. You may have seen him but are not certain of the date. Is that possible?”

“As I said before, I don’t drive after dark. It’s the glare.”

The man with the ordinary brown hair closed his notebook and slid his pencil in a front pocket. “Thank you for your time, ma’am.”

“That’s all?” Malina said. “Aren’t you here about Elizabeth Symanski? Are you doing nothing to find the child?”

At the bottom of the stairs, the ordinary detective said, “There are many fine officers working to find Miss Symanski.”

“Do you mean to question me about that Negro woman, the one who was killed? That happened on a Wednesday night. Is that what you mean to question me about?”

“Thank you for your time, ma’am,” the sweet detective said, and removed his hat again.

“You understand, don’t you?” Malina called out again as the officers neared their car.

Leaning over the porch railing, Malina lifted one foot off the ground and pointed her toe to create a lovely, long line so they’d remember her kindly.

“I don’t drive at night. I can’t, you see.”

The car began to back out of the driveway.

“It’s the glare. I didn’t see Jerry Lawson that night or any other.”

The officer who was driving rolled the steering wheel one direction and then the other.

“You’ll not say otherwise, will you? You’ll not tell my husband I was out that evening? He’ll be terribly upset if you tell him such a thing.”

And then the car was gone and Malina whispered.

“He’ll be terribly upset if you tell him I’ve lied.”