Until She Comes Home

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Izzy squints into the morning sunlight that bounces off the bathroom mirror and after counting out one hundred strokes of her hair, she sets aside the brush. Her cheeks and chin are red from her having scrubbed her face with a soapy washcloth, and her hair falls smoothly over her shoulders. Next she brushes her teeth, tucks in the white cotton blouse that had the least wrinkles when she pulled it from her drawer, and slips on a blue headband to keep the hair out of her face. No wonder Arie spends so much time in the bathroom every morning.

From out in the hallway, Arie bangs on the door for the third time because if Izzy doesn’t hurry up, Arie won’t be ready to leave for the church on time. Aunt Julia insisted both girls take a bath even though they took one last night because they spent all morning scraping paint off Uncle Bill’s garage. After Izzy complained at the breakfast table that the television was nothing but gray fuzz and the house was hot and they knew every single record by heart and why couldn’t someone take them to Jefferson Beach, Aunt Julia had handed Arie a three-inch putty knife and Izzy a wire brush and said if they were so bored, she would be happy to give them something to fill their time. Taking one last glimpse in the mirror, Izzy throws open the bathroom door, lowers her head, and rushes down the hall before Arie has a chance to notice Izzy has made herself up to look just like her twin sister.

Downstairs in the entryway, the front door stands open. A car trunk slams and Aunt Julia marches up the sidewalk and onto the porch. Though Izzy knows it isn’t possible, Aunt Julia’s chest looks bigger today than it was yesterday. Every day, Aunt Julia’s curves appear to grow, making Izzy certain hers never will. Ducking her chin to her chest, Izzy digs at the linoleum floor with the tip of one toe because that’s what Arie would do if she got caught staring at the gap in Aunt Julia’s blouse.

“Would you tell Izzy to get a move on?” Aunt Julia says, walking through the door and toward the kitchen, a sweet, perfumed smell following her inside. “We’re going to be late if that child doesn’t get going.”

Izzy continues to stare at the floor and tries not to smile. “Aunt Julia,” she says, pitching her voice the slightest bit higher so she’ll sound like Arie. “Could Izzy and I stay home today?”

Aunt Julia stops and crosses her arms over her chest. She thinks Izzy is Arie because Izzy has brushed her hair with one hundred strokes, scrubbed her face until it burned, and wears a tucked-in blouse that isn’t wrinkled.

“I promise to make Izzy behave,” Izzy says. “But I’d rather not go to the church. It scares me to be there.”

“What do you mean?” Aunt Julia runs a hand over Izzy’s glossy hair, thinking it’s Arie’s glossy hair.

“It makes me think about Elizabeth all the time,” Izzy says, “and that scares me.”

“I don’t know,” Aunt Julia says, looking overhead to where Arie is in the bathroom, brushing her hair and scrubbing her face. “It’s not that I worry so much about you, but Izzy isn’t one to mind me these days.”

“I’ll make her listen,” Izzy says. “I promise I won’t let Izzy out of my sight.”

Once Aunt Julia’s red taillights have disappeared around the corner at Alder and Woodward and while the water still runs in the upstairs bathroom, Izzy yanks at her crisp white cotton blouse so it hangs loose at her waist, pulls off her headband, and runs out the back door, across the yard, and into the alley. She would have brought Arie, but she is all of a sudden afraid of the alley and wouldn’t have approved anyway. Izzy runs until she reaches the Turners’ house, and once there, she squats behind the overgrown bushes Mr. Turner never trims. From this end of the block, Izzy can see the top floor of Aunt Julia’s house. She squints and maybe sees Arie standing in their bedroom window. Just in case, she gives Arie a big wave so she’ll know everything is all right. Then Izzy drops back behind the bush and watches for approaching cars.

After waiting for a good long time and hearing and seeing nothing, Izzy peeks out from behind the bush. Across the intersection, just outside Mr. Symanski’s house, a group of three men huddles around a clipboard. Two of the men carry walking sticks, the third holds the clipboard. After talking for a few minutes, the three men walk toward the Filmore and disappear around back, where they must be heading down into the poplar trees. They’ll poke at the shrubs and mushy piles of leaves back there in hopes one of them will finally poke Elizabeth. When Izzy is sure the men are gone, she jumps up from behind Mr. Turner’s shaggy bushes, gives one last wave in case Arie can see her, and runs toward Beersdorf’s Grocery.

A small bell overhead rings when Grace pushes open the bakery door. As it was yesterday, the air inside the small shop is thick and warm. The glass cabinets and the wire shelves are still empty. It’s payday on Willingham Avenue, usually the busiest day of the week, but today, all the other shops have closed. Soft voices drift out of the back room. That’s Cassia’s voice, the young mother with the black carriage, light and sweet, calling for more flour. And Sylvie, the largest of the women Grace met yesterday, telling Cassia no more, you’ll ruin the dough. Setting her handbag on Mrs. Nowack’s counter, Grace pulls off her gloves one finger at a time.

Outside the shop, two police cars drive by, stop at the intersection of Willingham and Chamberlin, and turn left. They are probably headed to the river, where they’ll search for Elizabeth. Grace draws in a deep breath. It’s easier to breathe here on Willingham. Everything is easier here on Willingham. The baby doesn’t ride quite as low and heavy and the ache in her tailbone is gone. This is what a good night’s sleep does for a person. This is what Orin Schofield, sitting watch in the alley, a rifle resting in his lap, has done for Grace.

“You are coming just in time,” Mrs. Nowack says, walking from behind the black curtain. Her gray skirt brushes the floor and her small black loafers peek out from under the hem of her skirt. Her spongy, wide feet spill over the tops of her shoes. From under the counter, she pulls four large silver trays. “Hurry before they are rolling out the dough. We have many hands today and will be finishing in no time. You are wanting to learn, yes?”

Behind Mrs. Nowack, near the register, the baby carriage Grace saw the day before is pushed against the wall. It’s covered with the same tattered yellow quilt.

“They’ll keep nicely in the freezer?” Grace whispers as if there were a baby sleeping in the carriage. “The bake sale has been postponed, you know.” She turns at the sound of another engine idling outside the shop. Somewhere nearby, a car carrier rolls toward the docks, its heavy load shaking the floor beneath Grace’s feet. Soon enough, the carrier, or one much like it, will return north, empty of its load. Its loose chains and weathered straps will rattle as it passes through the streets.

“They will be keeping in the freezer as long as you need,” Mrs. Nowack says, also looking out the store’s front window.

That’s Julia’s car sitting at the stop sign, and that’s Julia sitting behind the wheel, unmistakable with her tangle of red hair. She stares straight ahead at the warehouse, looking almost as if she’s lost.

On her way to catch the afternoon bus to Willingham, Grace had stopped at Julia’s for coffee and a visit. Already Grace was feeling guilty for avoiding Julia. Grace had ignored a ringing phone that she knew was Julia and had hidden from a few knocks on her back door. A short visit would set things right.

Even from the front porch, Grace could smell the sweetness of ripened bananas-Julia’s homemade banana bread.

“I’m making pierogi today,” Grace had said, taking a seat at Julia’s kitchen table and stirring a sugar cube into her coffee. “Mrs. Nowack is going to help me.”

Standing at her stove, Julia poured a cup of milk into a small saucepan, then added a half stick of butter and a packed cup of brown sugar. Once her butter melted, she would add powdered sugar, beat it until it was smooth, and lastly drizzle the icing over her banana bread. Only glancing at Grace, Julia turned up the heat on her burner and beat the mixture with a wire whisk. Her lids drooped and her eyes were red as if she’d been crying, not recently, but during the night, perhaps all night. And her red hair, though never quite restrained, hung over her shoulders in loose, matted strands. It was the same look Julia had had in the weeks and months after Maryanne died.

“And how does that figure with James? I’m sure he can’t be happy about it, intent as he is on keeping you in that house.”

The sounds of metal scraping against wood floated into the kitchen through an open window. In the backyard, the twins were scraping loose paint off the garage. When the sounds fell silent for more than a moment, Julia leaned toward the open window and shouted, “There’s still meat on that bone.”

“I’m not telling him, and neither are you,” Grace said, sipping her coffee and shaking off Julia’s offer of a cigarette.

Before putting the milk back in the refrigerator, Julia poured herself a glass and offered one to Grace. It was Wednesday-diet day for Julia. Monday, Wednesday, Friday… one spoonful of the Swedish Milk Diet whisked into a glass of milk four times a day.

“Maybe you should eat something of a bit more substance,” Grace said.

Over the stove, a small timer pinged. Julia drank the milk, shook her head at the gritty texture she often complained about, and pulled two loaves of banana bread from the oven. She shook the oven mitts from her hands, arched her back, and cocked one hip to the side. “Girl’s got to keep her figure.” She bounced that hip and tried to laugh as she shook her large chest in Grace’s direction. Normally, Grace would blush and swat a hand at Julia, maybe tell her to put those things away, but today, before Grace could do either, Julia dropped her hip back where it belonged and let her shoulders sag.

“Where have you been, Grace?” Julia said, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth. “You haven’t been on the bus. I’ve called, stopped at the house.”

“I haven’t been well, I guess.” It’s true enough. “Is everything all right? Did something happen?” Grace began to stand so she could reach out and touch Julia’s arm, but Julia pulled away.

“It’s nothing,” Julia said, and busied herself rinsing out the dirty dishes.

“You should stay home today,” Grace said. “Take a break from going to the church. Spend some time with the girls.”

Julia waved away Grace’s suggestion and pushed aside the ruffled café curtains to watch the twins through the window. The sound of metal chipping away at loose paint still echoed through the backyard. “I wonder,” she had said, “if things will ever be good again.”

Holding four large silver trays, Mrs. Nowack shoulders her way through the black curtain separating the back of the bakery from the front, and holds it open for Grace.

“You’re sure it’s no bother?” Grace says.

Out on the street, Julia’s car finally rolls through the intersection, turns right, and disappears. Grace should have stayed with Julia, should have asked again what was really troubling her. But there was a bus to catch and Grace was eager to leave Alder and all the things that reminded her of how much was lost. The thing that troubled Julia was most likely the thing that troubled everyone on Alder Avenue. Six days and Elizabeth is still missing. Julia will be fighting her imagination, trying to escape the visions of Elizabeth alone, frightened, or dying or dead. Grace fights the same visions, but they don’t spring from her imagination. They spring from the memory of the night those men, that man, came for her.

“You are seeing I have no customers,” Mrs. Nowack says. “Come, we are having plenty of time for pierogi.”

“Do we leave the baby here?” Grace asks. “Unattended?”

Mrs. Nowack lets the curtain fall closed and sets the trays on the counter. Through the round glasses perched on the end of her nose, she squints at Grace. “You know there is being no baby, yes?”

Grace nods. “Was there ever?”

“You are seeing only a mother who wishes her baby had lived. One child giving birth to another. Too much sadness I am thinking, and this is what happens.”

Grace slides her feet across the gritty tile, slowly so she makes no noise, and at the carriage, she pinches a corner of the quilt and pulls. The quilt falls away from the empty bassinet. She wonders, if the women knew what happened to her, would they coo to her and touch her softly on the shoulders and back as they had done for Cassia.

“It is being like Elizabeth, yes?” Mrs. Nowack says. “Who knows what all this sadness will be doing to us.”

Grace shakes out the quilt and drapes it over the carriage.

“Coming,” Mrs. Nowack says, picking up her trays. “We are having much work. Busy is good. Busy is very good.”

Outside on Willingham, two more police cars drive past. This time, their lights flash, their sirens whine. They don’t stop at the intersection like the other two police cars but drive straight through the stop sign and head toward the river.

Letting the black curtain fall closed, Mrs. Nowack sets her trays back on the counter and walks across the black-and-white tile to the front window. Yet another police car drives past.

“Or perhaps today is not being the day for our work.” She shakes her head and makes a clicking sound with her tongue. “I am afraid we are having bad news. It is being best you go home.”

Julia should have said no to Arie and insisted she and Izzy come with her to the church. If she weren’t thinking only of herself, she would have, but as Arie stood before Julia with her freshly scrubbed face and neatly combed hair, begging for a chance to stay home, Julia thought it might be easier if she left the house by herself. She could have never explained to the girls why she wanted to drive by the factory on the way to the church or what she was hoping to find there.

All of Willingham Avenue’s shops are closed today, their windows dark, except for the bakery. Julia stares straight ahead at the factory’s parking lot. It’s only half full of cars, all of them owned by men Julia doesn’t know. They’ll be cars that belong to men who never met Elizabeth, men who live east of Woodward or north of Eight Mile. They’ll be cars that belong to men who work two shifts to make up for men who search. Where Willingham dead-ends into Chamberlin, Julia rests her foot on the brake and lets the car idle. No women stand in the warehouse next to the factory. The ladies said the women come on payday, tempt the men, put themselves on display in the windows. But the warehouse door is boarded up and every window is empty and black. The glass is broken out of a few and plywood has been nailed at all angles to keep out the trespassers.

Julia didn’t really expect to find Bill’s car here. She’ll find it at the church, or he’ll be out driving through one of the neighborhoods Grace’s husband marked off on the map. She should have never let her mind wander to the dead woman on Willingham when Bill sat at the dining-room table, his head buried in his arms, and said that he was so very sorry. But what else was she to think? What else could torment a man? What other than guilt and remorse? She flips on her right blinker, turns off Willingham onto Chamberlin, and her mind wanders to what became of Elizabeth Symanski.

In the church basement, Julia circles the room, raving about the splendid smell that met her the moment she climbed out of her car. Making her way to the end of the rectangular table draped with a freshly washed and ironed white linen, Julia unwraps her banana bread, apologizing all the while that she didn’t go to nearly the trouble of the others. She thinks to ask one of the ladies if Bill has been through for lunch yet, but because the casserole dishes are full and the coffee cups sit in perfect rows on the square card table she knows none of the men have arrived. She also doesn’t ask because she’s afraid the ladies will hear doubt in her voice, or fear, or panic.

Today, there is talk of a funeral. Julia hears this in snippets of conversation that flow about the room. With the arrest of the colored man from the Filmore, the ladies assume Elizabeth will soon be found. Julia isn’t certain anymore if she saw Elizabeth walk through that gate. What does she remember because it actually happened and what does she remember because she wants so badly for it to be true? When the police asked her, which they did three times, they said they wanted only to establish a timeline. They weren’t trying to place blame. This is how life works, they said. Sometimes it’s a messy thing to behold. Relax. Close your eyes if it helps. What do you know to be true?

After Julia has unwrapped her banana bread, sliced the first loaf, and set out the butter to soften, she fills two pitchers to freshen the water in the percolators. As she moves about the room, stacking the coffee cups and filling the creamers, the ladies follow her with their eyes. They shift their gaze when Julia smiles at them, but look back the moment they think she has turned away. They know something but don’t want to tell Julia. Or maybe they are blaming Julia for what has happened, maybe worrying about what will become of her, or perhaps they can see in Julia’s face or in her eyes or in the way she walks that she is slowly sinking into the fear of what her own husband may have done.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

After Izzy gives one last wave in case Arie can see her from the bedroom window, she runs out of the alley and onto Alder Avenue. When she sees a second group of searchers, she squats behind another bush. One block later, she spots a third group and hides on the far side of an elm that hasn’t been chopped down yet. Elms used to grow along both sides of Alder Avenue. The trees formed an arch in summer when their leaves were thick, and in the winter, their bare branches were like claws trapping the houses below. Most of the elms are gone now, from Alder and all the other streets too.

While hiding from the most recent set of searchers and watching as the three men walk up to a door, tap lightly, and step back to wait for the lady of the house to appear, it occurs to Izzy she recognizes none of them, and if she doesn’t recognize them, they won’t recognize her. Even if they do catch sight of her and wonder why she is running about a neighborhood no one considers safe anymore, they won’t know to tell Aunt Julia because they won’t know where Izzy belongs. She runs the rest of the way without worrying about who might see her until she spots Mr. Herze’s giant blue sedan on the corner just past Beersdorf’s Grocery. The car’s fins run half its length and the chrome front end glitters where it catches the sun-definitely Mr. Herze’s car.

The fans hit Izzy full in the face when she pulls open Beersdorf’s heavy door. The small store smells of sour milk and bleach. Behind the front counter, Mr. Beersdorf stands, one hand resting on his register, the other on his large belly. When the girls used to shop here with Aunt Julia-before the neighborhood turned like a bad banana-Mr. Beersdorf’s apron was crisp and white and his belly was even bigger. Now the apron is gray and his belly has deflated because Mrs. Beersdorf died and he doesn’t have anyone to do his cooking and cleaning anymore. He flicks his eyes in Izzy’s direction but quickly turns his attention back to the large Negro woman standing at the display cases that run along the far side of the store. The plump woman wears a pink-and-white calico dress belted at her thick waist. With one hand, she holds a young girl by the wrist and is picking through Mr. Beersdorf’s tomatoes with the other. Izzy scans the rest of the shop. No sign of Mr. Herze. He must be among those searching the neighborhood, probably one of the men who carries a clipboard.

“Don’t you bruise my wares,” Mr. Beersdorf calls out.

As if to get Mr. Beersdorf’s goat, something Grandma likes to say, the woman is taking her own sweet time picking through every single tomato. The woman pays no mind to Mr. Beersdorf and continues picking and sorting. While Mr. Beersdorf is busy frowning at the woman, Izzy makes her way to the far side of the shop, her sneakers sliding easily across the black-and-gray checkered floor. She walks with a straight back and lets her arms hang naturally at her sides. The trick is to move with a normal stride and not glance about to see who’s watching. Behind her, where the tall windows let in the only light, the shop’s door opens. A blast of warm air rushes inside, blowing strands of Izzy’s red hair across her face. That same blast causes Mr. Beersdorf to stand to his full height and stick out his belly. Izzy turns to see what has caused Mr. Beersdorf to double in size.

Three colored men walk into the shop. One of them leans against the doorframe while the other two walk inside. One of the men is much taller and wider than the others and a tuft of hair grows from his chin. As the two men stroll past Mr. Beersdorf, paying him no attention, Izzy continues across the store, back straight, arms loose, no glancing about.

At the end of aisle one, red and green pennants hang overhead, their narrow tips fluttering from the gust of air the men let in, and a large cardboard cutout of a boy wearing a cowboy hat points toward a bin of canned peas and corn. His cheeks and the end of his round nose are red as if he’s had too much sun, and a blue kerchief is tied around his cardboard neck. The same cardboard boy stood over that bin when Izzy and Arie used to come to the store with Aunt Julia. They were younger then and Mrs. Beersdorf would say the cowboy was glad to see the girls and that he had been waiting all year for them to return. Izzy dashes past the display, fearing the boy is watching her and knows exactly what she’s up to.

Izzy tried to find a can of tuna in Aunt Julia’s cupboards, even mentioned one afternoon that some tuna sure would taste good. Aunt Julia said she had used up the last of it for the men down at the church and she’d put more on her shopping list, but after two trips to Willingham, Aunt Julia still hadn’t brought any home. There was only one way Izzy was going to get tuna.

She first spotted the cans the last time she and Arie were at Beersdorf’s, shortly before Izzy slipped the stolen pop under her shirt. If they were going to ever find their cat, tuna would be the perfect bait, and finding Patches is about the only way Izzy can think of to get Arie feeling better. For months, Arie worried and fussed about that dog the Russians shot up into space. She would stare into a black sky, hoping she might see that spaceship with the dog inside, as if her seeing it would have meant that dog was safe. About the time Arie stopped looking for that dog, their cat disappeared and then Arie started being afraid of the alley and just about everything else, it seemed. If it’s not one thing with Arie, it’s another.

Keeping her head down, Izzy passes behind the little girl and the woman sorting through the tomatoes, continues to the far end of the aisle, and squats to the lowest shelf. Checking both ways to make sure Mr. Beersdorf hasn’t appeared, she palms a can of tuna and tucks it into her elastic waistband. Behind her, the little girl lets out a squeal.

“Hush up,” the girl’s mother says, rolling another tomato from side to side as she inspects it. “Mind yourself.”

Izzy twists up her face the same way Arie does when she’s angry and points it at the girl, who promptly wraps both arms around her mother’s wide legs and hides her face in her mother’s thighs. With the girl no longer watching, Izzy stands slowly so the tuna won’t break free of her waistband. Half a dozen long strides will take her to the end of the aisle and back to the front of the store. When Izzy reaches her full height, the can tucked securely in place, the little Negro girl peeks out from behind her mother’s thighs. Izzy holds a finger to her lips. The little girl lets go of her mother’s legs, jumps into the center of the aisle, and shapes her face into the same scowl Izzy made. Two pigtails stick out from the girl’s head like fuzzy black handles. She jumps up and down and tugs at her mother’s blouse. Looking first at Izzy and then down at her daughter, the mother sets aside her tomato and reaches out to scoop up the girl, but she bounces out of reach and begins flapping her arms and pointing at Izzy.

“Stealer, stealer,” the girl chants. “Stealer, stealer.”

The mother fends off the small flailing arms and manages to wrap one hand around the girl’s shoulder. In the wake of the flapping and floundering, a few tomatoes tumble out of the display case. Izzy dashes toward the cardboard cowboy at the end of the aisle. The girl squeals and yanks away from her mother. As the woman lunges for her daughter, managing only to grab the girl’s small wrist, her foot lands in the center of a fallen tomato. The woman slips, losing her grip on the girl, and the girl flies across the aisle and into Izzy’s path.

Throwing out both hands like she does when she flies over her bike’s handlebars, Izzy sails past the little girl and falls face-first toward the checkered floor. The can of tuna breaks loose of her elastic waistband, drops out the leg of her shorts, bounces up, and hits the little girl in the head. The can continues to bounce across the black-and-gray tile and comes to rest a few feet beyond Izzy’s reach.

“Hey there,” Mr. Beersdorf shouts.

At the end of the aisle, Mr. Beersdorf appears. He stops under the pennants that now hang motionless. To the left of him stands the cardboard cutout, but from where she lies, facedown, Izzy can see only the boy’s brown paper backing and the wooden slats that hold him in place.

“What’s happening here?” Mr. Beersdorf says. “You there.” He points down at Izzy. “What’s your name? Do I know your parents?”

Izzy scrambles to her knees. Behind her, the little girl is crying and the mother is trying to pick her up.

“You’ll pay for that produce,” Mr. Beersdorf shouts, jabbing a finger at the woman struggling with her crying child.

On hands and knees, Izzy snatches up the can, jumps to her feet, darts between Mr. Beersdorf and the cardboard cowboy, and runs toward the door.

“Stop there,” Mr. Beersdorf shouts over the screaming little girl. “Bring back that can.”

At the front of the store, the colored man who waited while the other two walked into the shop pushes open the door and ushers Izzy outside with a one-handed sweeping gesture. “That’s twice I saved you, huh?” he says as she runs past. He smiles down on Izzy, his teeth bright and white against his warm, brown skin. He has soft, lazy eyes like Uncle Bill and stands with a strong, straight back. Izzy smiles, though she isn’t sure what the man means to say, and holding the tuna in one hand she runs out of the store and through the empty parking lot. Knowing Mr. Beersdorf won’t follow her because he’ll be too worried about all those Negroes, Izzy slows to a walk when she reaches the street, tosses the can into the air, and catches it. Tosses it and catches it.

“I’m guessing your aunt doesn’t know you’re out and about, does she? And I’m guessing you didn’t buy that can of tuna.”

Izzy wraps both hands around the small can, hiding it as best she can. Three men walk toward her. Two carry long sticks meant for poking through bushes. The men wear hats, white cotton work shirts rolled up at the sleeves, faded blue pants that have no crease, and black boots. They stand on either side of the third man. Izzy knows the third man. Just as she thought, Mr. Herze carries the clipboard.

The ladies have set up fewer tables at the church today than they did a few days ago. Fewer and fewer men are joining in the search. Some say they are troubled by taking charity from the men who work double shifts. Today is payday, the start of a new pay period. It’s time they get back to work. Others say now that a man has been arrested, there’s no need to continue looking. That Negro will talk soon enough, the men say. Give the police some time. That Negro’ll talk.

It had been nearly noon when Malina finally woke, and Mr. Herze had already left for the day. His cologne no longer lingered and the air in the hallway was cool and dry, no leftover steam from the hot water he would have run to bathe himself before leaving. The pills had worked. He never tried to wake her. But they also muddied Malina’s thoughts and caused her to sleep late. Once out of bed, she had slipped on the first wrinkle-resistant dress she came across in her closet, and on her way out of the house she fished her yellow rubber gloves from beneath the sink, and once through the back door she shook the cornstarch from them. Across the street and a few doors down, a moving truck was parked outside Betty Lawson’s house. Yes, it was a moving truck. That was Jerry Lawson holding open his front door as two Negro men carried a blue tweed sofa from the house. Soon enough, one of Malina’s troubles would be gone. Mr. Herze would never again sit at the Lawsons’ kitchen table and listen to a police officer call Malina a liar, because the Lawsons would no longer live on Alder Avenue.

At the bottom of the stairs leading into the church basement, Malina bids hello to Sara Washburn, coordinator for today’s luncheon. With a clipboard in hand, Sara checks off Malina’s name and makes note of the stuffed-pepper meatloaf Malina has brought and smiles because she has remembered to do exactly as Malina instructed. Sara’s brown hair flips up in tight curls that ride just above her shoulders and the plaid dress she wears is too heavy for such a warm day. Malina gives Sara a wink and a pat on the shoulder, not because Malina is fond of the woman, but because the relief of having seen the moving van outside the Lawsons’ house has lifted her spirits. She might even call herself giddy. Setting her casserole with the other homemade dishes, she trails a finger along the table and inspects what all the other ladies have brought. Card tables have been set up and covered with linens, place settings have been put out, and the coffee bubbles up at a small table near the back of the room. Behind the table stands Julia Wagner.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Malina says. “I rather thought you’d be home with the twins.”

Julia glances up from a sheet of limp paper she holds in her hands. Because of the small dark print and thin worn edges, it’s probably something cut from a newspaper. She smiles but says nothing.

“I see you brought your banana bread,” Malina says, drawing a cup of coffee from one of the percolators. “Mr. Herze does love it so. You should think about bringing it to the bake sale this year.”

A pale yellow scarf is tied over Julia’s hair, which has yet to see a brush today, and as is usually the case, her blouse is too snug through the chest. The strain has caused a gap to open up between two buttons-a gap Julia has tried to remedy with a safety pin.

“Pardon?” Julia says, folding the paper and setting it on the table. She looks about the room as if she’s forgotten where she is.

“The bake sale,” Malina says. “I should think your banana bread would prove quite popular.”

“No,” Julia says. “What did you say about the girls?”

“Nothing,” Malina says. “But I did see them out and about today before I left the house, or I should say I saw one of them. I guess I assumed you were home. I didn’t expect to find you here.”

“You saw the girls outside?”

Malina nods and tries not to stare at the pin woven into Julia’s blouse. Each time she inhales, that silver prong catches the overhead light and sparkles.

“Only one of them,” Malina says. “She was walking down the street. Not causing any trouble, though I do suspect they are the culprits who have trampled my flowers on occasion.”

“Would you mind the coffee?” Julia asks, slipping from behind the table. “I think I’d better run home.”

At the bottom of the stairs leading into the dining hall, one of the husbands appears, his hat in hand, fingering the brim as he stretches his neck to scan the room. “Doris,” he calls out, brushing aside the ladies who approach him. “Where’s my Doris?”

“Very well,” Malina says, taking Julia’s place behind the table while keeping watch over the commotion going on across the room. Not even this extra duty will dampen Malina’s mood. Julia has always been an odd sort of neighbor, and Malina’s found it difficult to converse with her ever since her baby died. It’s such a lot of sadness to contend with. “Don’t forget this.” Malina picks up the tattered, worn slip of paper and stretches across the table to hand it to Julia.

Julia takes the clipping between two fingers and opens it.

“Did you ever consider this?” she says, lifting the article and pressing it toward Malina for a closer look.

“What ever do you mean?”

The ladies continue to congregate near the stairwell. “I’m here.” It’s Doris Taylor’s voice, rising above the rest. “My goodness, I’m right here.”

“A place like this,” Julia says, paying the ladies no mind. “The Willows. Have you heard of it?”

Malina walks from behind the table, crosses her arms, and leans forward so she can see what Julia holds in her hands. “What on earth? I haven’t the faintest notion what this is. The twins, Julia. You’re supposed to be tending to the twins.”

“You and Warren, you’ve never had children. You must have considered it. Adoption. Did you ever consider adoption?”

“I am quite sure that is none of your business, Julia Wagner.”

“Let us pass.” It’s Doris’s husband. “Step away, all of you. Let us pass.”

All around the room, the ladies begin scurrying about, collecting their bags and wraps. Some of them fuss with their casseroles and cover them with foil while others gather the plates, saucers, and flatware and stack them on the back credenza. Still others rip linens from the tables and stuff them in cloth laundry bags.

“How dare you broach such a personal question?” Malina says. “You should concern yourself with those girls and stop all this foolishness.”

“You think I don’t concern myself with the girls?” Julia says.

Julia’s perfume, something cheap and sweet, snags in Malina’s throat. She coughs into her fist. Julia throws back her shoulders, lifts her chin, and the gap in her blouse widens, straining the safety pin’s thin-coiled wire.

“I think adoption is a private thing not to be discussed in this manner, and you should concern yourself with the two children you already have.” Malina clears her throat as much to give herself time to think as to soothe the irritation from Julia’s perfume. “I think maybe you’re not well. It’s no wonder. What with all the stress of Elizabeth disappearing, I can’t imagine the guilt you’re feeling. I only meant to suggest you bring your banana bread to the sale. You’re such a fine cook. Nothing more. Really, nothing more.”

“Ladies, ladies, you two hurry along.” It’s Sara Washburn, calling out from across the room. When Julia and Malina make no move to leave, Sara walks toward them, a white cotton sweater slung over one arm and both hands wrapped around her clipboard. “Leave these things,” she says. “Switch off that coffee and go home.”

“You think I can’t care for Izzy and Arie?” Julia says, ignoring Sara.

“I said no such thing.” Malina pauses, reaches out to touch Julia’s arm.

Julia jerks away, nearly stumbling. “It’s what you all think, isn’t it? That I’m unfit.”

“Ladies,” Sara says, clutching the clipboard to her chest as if to protect herself. “Leave this to another time. I’d like to lock up.”

“Please, Julia. I said nothing about you being unfit. For goodness sake, what has gotten into you? The girls stay only a few weeks. How much trouble could they or you possibly get into? They really are of no concern to me.”

“Ladies, let’s move along,” Sara says.

“And what if they were to stay? Would you worry then? Am I only fit to care for them a few weeks at a time?”

“Is that true?” Malina says, her giddy mood slipping away. Looking from Sara Washburn in her bold plaid dress to Julia, who is bursting through her white cotton blouse, Malina tries to draw in another deep breath to clear her head, but the air is too heavy with Julia’s perfume. “They’ll stay on? The girls will stay?”

“Ladies,” Sara shouts.

Julia drops the tattered sheet of paper on the table. Her round, full chest rises and falls. More of her red hair has pulled loose of the scarf that held it from her face, and wiry strands stick out from her head. Both she and Malina turn to Sara.

“It’s Elizabeth,” Sara says, her shoulders sinking. “They’ve found her. They’ve found our Elizabeth. Please, it’s time to go home.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Grace agrees with Mrs. Nowack when she suggests it might be best that Grace go straight home, and after the fifth police car has raced past the bakery and turned toward the river, she boards the bus that will carry her back to Alder Avenue. But rather than stopping at her own house, she walks directly to Mr. Symanski’s, opens the iron gate, climbs the three stairs leading onto his porch, and knocks lightly. The door opens. Mr. Symanski wears a wrinkled shirt and a tie that falls too short. His pants hang loose on his waist and bag at his ankles. A pair of men’s shoes cut from soft kidskin leather sit to the side of the door. The tip of his big toe pokes through a small hole in his right sock.

“I thought to check on you,” Grace says. “I was down on Willingham…”

She lets her words trail off into silence, afraid to mention the many police cars and blaring sirens. Tugging off her white gloves one finger at a time, she checks the street for any sign of an officer who might be coming to deliver bad news.

Mr. Symanski blinks twice and squints again, as if not certain who Grace is, and then he smiles. “Come in,” he says. “Before the heat is getting you.”

Outside Mr. Symanski’s, tufts of crabgrass have grown up through the cracks in the sidewalk. The yard has become shabby in the short time since Elizabeth disappeared. It must have started when Ewa died, the slow, steady falling apart, but Grace hadn’t noticed until now.

In the living room, Grace tucks her gloves into her handbag. The air is heavy and stale, making it difficult to breathe. So often in the days since Elizabeth disappeared, it’s been difficult for Grace to breathe.

“The baby is well?” Mr. Symanski says.

Grace nods and pushes aside the heavy drapes in the front room. Light spills into the house, and the dust in the air sparkles. Across the street, the Filmore Apartments are quiet. They’re always quiet. In the evenings, when the people come home from work, they must park their cars and disappear inside straightaway. Everyone says some of the families living there are Negroes, but Grace has never seen them coming or going through the glass doors. She’s only seen the men who roam the alley and now the street. The one who came for her hasn’t been among them since the night of the attack. Grace excuses herself and, in the kitchen, pulls a bottle of diluted vinegar from under the sink, grabs a few pages from yesterday’s newspaper, and walks back to the living room.

“The police came to see you?” Mr. Symanski says.

“They did.” She sets aside the bottle so she can use both hands to wad up the newspaper.

A half dozen times since the officers questioned James and Grace, their patrol car has rolled down Alder Avenue. Each time, the car drove slowly as it crept past her house, giving her a chance to rush outside and admit to them she lied. They could find Elizabeth if only Grace would tell the truth.

“Yesterday,” she says. “They came yesterday.”

Sprinkling the diluted vinegar on the crumpled ball of newspaper, Grace rubs small circles on the living room’s cloudy window.

“They are asking you more questions?” Mr. Symanski says.

Another deep breath so her voice won’t quiver.

“I wish I could have told them something,” she says, and rubs her nose.

Ewa’s vinegar water is stronger than the mixture Grace has at home. But stronger is better. The glass glistens and squeals as Grace scrubs.

“I wish I could have told them something that would help. But they arrested a man. Does it give you any peace to know that?”

Maybe there is some comfort in knowing. Maybe not knowing is the thing that tortures a father, keeps him up at night, turns his hair to straw, makes his shoulders cave and his spine bow. The street must surely be safer with one of them arrested. This must bring some peace.

Mr. Symanski sits on the sofa. He used to sit in the brown recliner pushed against the wall, and Ewa would sit next to him in her chair. With his hands in his lap, he smiles at the bright window.

“They have no one,” he says.

“But they arrested a man.”

“They are telling me it was unrelated,” Mr. Symanski says. “I don’t understand unrelated. I am thinking Elizabeth doesn’t matter as much as another might.”

“I don’t understand, either,” Grace says. “They let him go? How can they do that?”

Mr. Symanski shakes his head. “They say they can be holding a man only so long. That is all they are telling me.”

“Did he live there?” Grace says, pointing at the Filmore. She squints into the freshly cleaned window just as Mr. Symanski had squinted when she first opened the door. As she stares across Alder Avenue, she wipes down the marble sill with her soggy newspaper. “Is he here on this street? Have you ever seen him?”

“I am never looking.”

“I wish I could have helped you,” she says, knowing the man is back on the street because she was too afraid to tell the truth. “I wish I could have said something to the police, told them something that would have stopped all this.”

From his seat on the sofa, Mr. Symanski stares down at the sliver of toe poking through his sock. “You are helping me now,” he says. “You are being a good neighbor. And always so good to my Elizabeth. Always so good. You’ll be having your own soon and knowing how wonderful a daughter is to love.”

After scrubbing the kitchen window, wiping down the counters, and promising to deliver a roast in a few days to fill Mr. Symanski’s empty refrigerator-or possibly a stuffed chicken if he has tired of a roast every week-Grace walks with Mr. Symanski to the front gate. Once there, she hugs him lightly and pushes on the gate’s latch. It sticks, so she gives it a second jostle. Down the street, near her own house, one of the twins walks toward her. From this distance, she can’t tell which one.

“The police came to see me today,” Mr. Symanski says. “Just before you are here, they came.”

Grace lets the gate fall closed and whirls around to face Mr. Symanski. “Oh, no.”

The twin is a half block closer. Because her head jerks from side to side as if she’s afraid of her surroundings and because her shoulders droop, Grace knows it’s Arie.

“Yes,” Mr. Symanski says. “It was being the river. That is all they are telling me. Today they are finding her. It is being the other men who tell them it is my Elizabeth.”

Grace reaches out, squeezes Mr. Symanski’s wrist, pulls him into her arms. “What can I say? It’s my fault. All of this. My fault.”

Mr. Symanski, hunched over at an awkward angle because of Grace’s large stomach, rests his head on her shoulder. “This is not being true,” he says. “My Elizabeth, she is being at peace?”

Grace dabs at her eyes. She wants to ask how it happened, what the police found, but Arie is only a house away and she shouldn’t see this or hear this.

“Can I help you inside?” Grace says, glancing back at Arie. She has walked a few yards closer and stopped. She stands at the sidewalk that leads to the Archers’, who live next door, and has wrapped herself in both arms. Even from this distance, Grace can see Arie is crying.

“Go,” Mr. Symanski says. “Go and see to the child.” Halfway up the sidewalk, he stops and turns back. “It is being hardest to be the only one left.”

Grace watches until Mr. Symanski reaches his porch, then she bangs on the latch again and once through the gate, she rushes toward Arie.

“Arie, dear. What is it? What’s wrong?”

Arie’s lips roll in on themselves and she backs away. She shakes her head but doesn’t speak.

“Honey, please. Why are you crying?” Grace takes another few steps closer, but this time, she moves slowly.

Arie must know about Elizabeth’s death. Grace should be crying too, but she’s known all along things would come to this end.

“It’s Izzy,” Arie says, still cradling herself with her own arms. “I’m afraid what happened to you is going to happen to her.”

When Mrs. Richardson reaches out to cup Arie’s shoulder, Arie stumbles away. It’s rude, and Aunt Julia would be disappointed, but something bad happened to Mrs. Richardson in that alley, something so bad she hasn’t even told Aunt Julia, and Arie doesn’t want to be touched by it.

Again, Arie says in little more than a whisper, “I’m afraid what happened to you is going to happen to Izzy.” She sniffles and drags her hand across her nose.

Mrs. Richardson doesn’t try to come any closer. Her white hair glows in the bright sun. None of it breaks free of the band holding it from her face or frizzes at her temples like Arie’s hair always does. In the street, a car drives by. Mrs. Richardson doesn’t smile or wave even though it’s the neighborly thing to do. Now she is the one afraid to get too near.

“What do you mean by that, Arie? What do you think happened to me?”

After Arie had finished cleaning up to go to church with Aunt Julia, she had run downstairs, her sneakers in hand. Sock-footed, she skated into the kitchen. Empty. She shouted into the backyard. Nothing. Lastly, she looked out the front window. The driveway was empty. Aunt Julia was gone, and so was Izzy. She ran back upstairs, and from her bedroom window, she scanned Alder Avenue. Every door along the street was closed. Most of the driveways were empty. She crawled over Izzy’s bed, a rumpled mess because she never makes hospital corners or smooths her quilt, and looked out the side window. She looked past the roofs and antennae and overhead lines, and at the far end of the alley, she saw a person. She couldn’t say she saw Izzy because the person was too far away, and yet, she knew it was Izzy because an arm stretched into the air and waved in broad strokes.

Arie watched the alley for half an hour. It was early, she told herself. Not until five o’clock would Mr. Schofield set up his chair again. Like everyone on Alder Avenue, Mr. Schofield knew the colored men came at ten and five, or thereabouts. Surely Izzy would be home long before that. But then one o’clock passed, and two o’clock and soon, Aunt Julia would be home. Arie had to go looking.

The street had jumped to life while Arie was upstairs watching the alley. Cars drove past, whipped into driveways, and ladies scurried to their front doors. Arie had clung to the banister with both hands as she walked down the stairs to the sidewalk and she waited for one of the ladies to shout out to her and tell her to get back inside. But no one noticed her or scolded her. Three times Arie walked up and down Alder. Cars continued to drive down the street, but instead of more ladies, it was their husbands, home at an odd hour, and because they, too, hurried inside without tending to their trash cans or setting out the sprinkler or using the daylight to mow the lawn, and because time was slipping away and five o’clock would eventually come, fear welled up in Arie and she couldn’t stop that fear from spilling out as tears when she saw Mrs. Richardson a half block away.

“I asked you a question,” Mrs. Richardson says, grabbing Arie’s arm. It’s the same spot she grabbed when she thought Izzy and Arie started the fire. “What do you mean? What do you know about what happened to me?”

Arie stares down on Mrs. Richardson’s hand. Her fingers pinch but Arie doesn’t pull away.

“The bad thing that happened to you,” Arie says. “The bad thing that happened in the garage.” She lifts her eyes. “I can’t find Izzy and I’m afraid the same will happen to her.”

Mrs. Richardson’s hand softens and drops from Arie’s arm. “Come,” she says, taking Arie’s hand, gently this time. “That looks like your aunt’s car. Let’s get you home and then we’ll find Izzy.”

Mrs. Richardson smiles at Arie and talks with a smooth, steady voice. She is trying to sound like she’s not scared, but red patches grow where her white collar rests on her neck and sweat collects on the soft hairs above her top lip and on the tender skin under her eyes. And instead of walking toward Aunt Julia, Mrs. Richardson almost runs, dragging Arie along behind.

Up ahead, Aunt Julia’s car rolls into the driveway. Uncle Bill doesn’t like for her to drive it because he says it’s on its last leg, but Aunt Julia said first leg or last leg, she had to drive it today because the bus wouldn’t do. She parks the car where the back bumper is left to stick out into the street, and without closing the door behind her, she walks toward Arie and Mrs. Richardson, slowly at first and then more quickly when she sees Mrs. Richardson is in a hurry.

Across the street, Mrs. Herze pulls into her driveway too. Mr. Herze’s big blue car is already parked there. He must have been one of the husbands who came home early. Arie’s been thinking only about the bad thing that might have happened to Izzy, but because Aunt Julia walks with long, quick steps and her makeup is smeared and because the husbands are home early and because every house is closed up tight, something else bad is happening right here on Alder Avenue.

Like Aunt Julia did, Mrs. Herze doesn’t bother to park her car properly and she runs over a patch of her snapdragons with one tire. They’re all dying anyway because she hoses them down several times during the day in case someone peed on them. Mrs. Herze throws open her door and waves across the street at Aunt Julia.

“Julia, stop,” Mrs. Herze calls out, waving something in the air.

Aunt Julia pauses but doesn’t look back. “Leave me be, Malina.”

“Please stop,” Mrs. Herze shouts again. Making her way down her driveway, she teeters on tall heels and a white handbag swings from her wrist. “Please, hear me out.”

Aunt Julia doesn’t wait for Mrs. Herze but continues toward Arie. Once close enough to see Arie has been crying, Aunt Julia draws her into a hug and says, “What’s wrong, sugar?” Aunt Julia smells like ripe bananas and brown-sugar frosting.

Mrs. Herze continues to wobble across the street on her narrow heels, all the while waving something in the air and begging Aunt Julia to listen and understand.

Saying nothing more to Mrs. Herze, Aunt Julia stoops before Arie and holds her by both shoulders. “Why are you crying? What’s all this fuss?” Aunt Julia smiles and talks with a hushed voice. Her speech becomes sluggish and she punches the beginning of each word. Uncle Bill says tough times, happy times, any sort of times can draw out Aunt Julia’s Southern drawl.

“Julia, I saved your clipping.” Mrs. Herze stumbles to a stop behind Aunt Julia. Clumps of her short black hair stick to her forehead where she has sweated, except she would call it perspiration, and her red lipstick bleeds into the thin lines that cut into her top lip. “Look here, I brought it back to you.”

Aunt Julia takes a deep breath. A silver safety pin meant to keep a gap in her blouse closed has popped open. Its sharp end points at Arie. Aunt Julia brushes her fingers across Arie’s brow.

“Now, tell me,” Aunt Julia says, “what’s all the fuss?” Then she turns to Mrs. Richardson. “Did she hear about Elizabeth?”

Mrs. Herze stomps one white shoe, grabs Aunt Julia’s shoulder, and gives a yank. Aunt Julia, still squatted in front of Arie, falls backward and lands on her hind end. Mrs. Richardson lunges but can’t stop Aunt Julia from toppling over.

“What on earth has gotten into you, Malina?” Mrs. Richardson says, her large belly making it difficult for her to stretch out a helping hand to Aunt Julia.

“I only meant to help, Julia,” Mrs. Herze says, gazing down on Aunt Julia and ignoring Mrs. Richardson’s question. A gray streak cuts through the part in Mrs. Herze’s black hair. “You’re being entirely unreasonable.”

“Malina.”

The loud, deep voice silences everyone. There, across the street, standing near the back of his car, his hand resting on the peak of one of its tall blue fins, is Mr. Herze.

“What on earth are you doing there?” he shouts. “Leave those people be.”

Mrs. Herze crosses her arms over her chest, tips forward at the waist so she is hovering over Aunt Julia, and drops her voice to a whisper. “Please, listen to me,” she says. Her eyes are stretched wide open and her thin, black brows ride higher than they normally do. Tiny stray hairs pepper her lids. Grandma would say Mrs. Herze needs to reacquaint herself with a pair of tweezers. “Please. Send those girls back to your mother.”

“Good Lord, Malina,” Aunt Julia says, snatching the sheet of paper from Mrs. Herze. “What kind of crazy has gotten its claws in you? Is this about those flowers of yours? Is that what has you in such a state?” Aunt Julia brushes away Mrs. Herze and reaches for Mrs. Richardson’s hand and the tissue she has pulled from her pocketbook. Once standing, Aunt Julia dabs at the stains under her eyes and says, “I suppose you’d better listen to your husband and leave us be.”

Aunt Julia continues to pat her face and chest until Mrs. Herze has backed into the middle of the street. Then Aunt Julia drops her eyes to Arie and lets them drift right, left, and right again.

“Where’s Izzy?” she says, the wadded-up tissue dangling from her fingers. The words crawl out of her mouth.

Mrs. Herze stops backing away. Behind her, Mr. Herze stands in the driveway.

“Where is your sister?”

CHAPTER TWENTY

Malina lingers in the middle of the street until a car forces her to move. She gives a kindly wave to the driver and steps onto the curb outside her house. Mr. Herze stands near his sedan. He rubs the top of the car’s fin as if it were Malina’s thigh. Her cheeks burn. Certainly, they’ve turned red. Across the street, Julia kneels before the twin and stares up at her. Grace stands at the girl’s side, one hand resting on her shoulder.

“Arie, you promised me you two would stay inside,” Julia says. “You crossed your heart and promised me.” One of Julia’s nylons is torn and a hole has opened up in her skirt’s side seam.

The girl shakes her head. “No,” she says.

Malina braves the street again and presses her ear toward the threesome.

“What do you mean, no? You stood right there in that entry and gave me your word. You gave me your word, Arie. You said you’d watch over your sister.”

The girl shakes her head. Malina takes another step.

“I didn’t make that promise,” the girl says. “It was Izzy. She was pretending to be me.”

They talk some more, the girl pointing toward the Filmore Apartments, Grace patting the girl’s shoulder and shaking her head, Julia looking up and down Alder Avenue. How long has she been gone? When did you last see her? Where would she go? Did you know she was going? Did you know she had gone?

“You said you saw one of the girls today,” Julia shouts when she notices Malina standing nearby. “Was it Izzy? Did she say where she was going?”

Malina shakes her head and can’t stop herself from glancing back at Mr. Herze.

Grace wraps an arm around the girl and walks her up Julia’s driveway. “I’ll get her inside,” she says. “And then I’ll check with the neighbors.”

“I’ll get my keys,” Mr. Herze calls out. “She won’t be far. I’ll drive around a few blocks.”

The screen door slams once when Mr. Herze goes inside and again when he returns. Another car comes along to force Malina and Julia from the street. It’s Grace Richardson’s husband. He pulls over, climbs out of his car, and jumps back in after Julia tells him of the missing child.

“Move this car,” Mr. Herze shouts at Malina. “I can’t very well get out with you blocking me in.”

Malina fumbles with the clasp on her purse and digs one hand inside, searching for her keys.

“How about you, Warren?” Julia says, after James Richardson has driven away. “Did you happen to see one of the girls while you were out today? It would have been Izzy.”

Walking out of Julia’s house, Grace’s skin is white except for the red glow that creeps up her neck. She has taken the other twin inside and now that twin sits in the front window, her face pressed to the glass, and looks as if she’s watching Mr. Herze.

Standing at the side of his car, his keys in hand, Mr. Herze stares across the street at Julia but doesn’t answer.

“Warren,” Julia says again. “Did you see her?”

He looks down at his keys, jostles them, pulls open the car door.

“Warren?”

“Well, good Lord in heaven,” Mr. Herze says. He tosses his keys into the air, catches them, and slams the door shut. “Unless you’ve got a third one running around, that must be the one you’re looking for.”

Down the block, James Richardson pulls into his drive. He has seen the same as Mr. Herze. Walking on the side of the street, where the last few elms throw a spot of shade, is the other twin. James Richardson walks to the street and makes a motion with his thumb, signaling to the girl she’d better hurry on home. She hugs something to her chest and begins a lazy jog. As she gets closer and sees Julia standing on the curb, arms crossed, the girl slows her pace. Malina walks toward her for a closer look. The girl definitely holds something in her arms. It’s a stack of paper-white, glossy paper-one sheet the exact size of the next. A stack at least a half-inch thick. Malina leans close as the girl passes. LOST CAT, it reads across the top in large black letters.

The girl continues the long, slow walk toward home. Without saying a word, Julia stretches out one arm and points a single finger at her house. The girl walks past Julia, head bowed. At the stairs leading to the front door, Grace, still pale, ruffles the top of the girl’s head with one hand. The girl ducks, pulls away from Grace’s touch, disappears inside, and the door closes. Leaning heavily on the banister, Grace makes her way down the last few stairs and walks up the sidewalk toward the street. Not until she hears the front door close does Julia drop her arm. She looks past Malina and turns to face Grace.

A few days ago, Malina saw a stack of paper exactly like the one clutched in the girl’s arms. It came home with Mr. Herze. The girls at the office made them-flyers for Elizabeth Symanski that the men taped in windows along Woodward. The paper was glossy, smooth, not like regular writing paper. A machine at the factory churned out one sheet exactly like the next. The girls knew how to make it work. Mr. Herze would never bother with such a chore. One flyer after another, each sheet exactly like the last and the next. Now the twin who is bold enough to walk right past Malina without even a hello carries a stack of those same flyers. LOST CAT, the top one read. All the rest will be exactly the same.

There is something final about the sound of Julia’s screen door slamming behind Izzy. First there is the squeal as the door opens, the creak when its springs are stretched as far as they’ll go, the momentary silence as it falls closed, and then the slap. The afternoon breeze is cool on Julia’s shin and knee where her torn nylon bares her skin. She tucks in the loose tail of her white blouse, straightens her skirt’s waistband, and pulls the bent safety pin from her blouse. Across the street, Malina has followed her husband inside. No sign of James Richardson, either. He must not have seen Grace here at Julia’s house and he’s gone inside his own house to look for her. Julia will send Grace straight home so James doesn’t worry. As Grace waddles toward her, this is what Julia intends to do. News of Elizabeth will weigh heavily on everyone and Grace is in no condition to abide all this sadness. Even though most had stopped expecting Elizabeth would come home, expecting a thing is a wide world away from knowing a thing.

“You heard, then?” Grace says. She stops beside Julia, clasps her hands together under her large stomach, and clears her throat as if preparing to say something bigger.

Julia nods. “Do you know how?” she says and then starts again. “Do you know what happened to her?”

“The river,” Grace says. “That’s all Mr. Symanski told me.”

“It all stops now, doesn’t it?” Julia says. “No more lunches? No more desserts and coffee? No more searching?”

“People think those men took her.” Grace dips her head in the direction of the Filmore Apartments. She doesn’t have to say more. “Do you know? Even the police think it. They arrested one of them but had to let him go. You know that, right? You know that’s happened?”

“Yes, I know that.”

It’s not the words that warn Julia what’s to come, it’s how Grace says them. Her tone is flat, as if she’s reading from a typed sheet of paper.

“Then, why?” Grace says.

“Why what?”

“Why do you leave the girls to their own devices? It’s not safe. They’re not safe.”

“I know it’s my burden, Grace. No need to make me wallow in it.”

“I don’t think anything is your fault, but I don’t think you realize how our street has changed.” Grace’s skin is pale and her lips are dry, cracked. “I think you need to mind those girls,” she says, “before something terrible happens.”

“Mind them like I didn’t mind Elizabeth? You’re as bad as Malina.”

“Julia, stop.” Grace reaches for Julia’s hands, but Julia pulls them away. “What happened to Elizabeth wasn’t your fault, and I wish you’d stop saying it was.”

“Why do you wish that, Grace?”

Julia is going to make Grace say it. She is going to stare at Grace, hold her eyes firm, not move an inch until Grace says it right out loud.

“Because if you think it was your fault, you must think it was my fault too.”

Everything did change with that slamming door. Elizabeth will never come home and this is Julia’s fault. Her own daughter will never come home and this is Julia’s fault too. Julia doesn’t know how to be a mother. She failed Maryanne and she will fail the twins. Julia’s own daughter died because Julia was a careless, hapless mother, and now there will never be another baby and Elizabeth will never come home.

“It was your fault, Grace,” Julia says. “Yours as much as mine.”

It’s five o’clock, must be because that’s the time the colored men always pass. From her bedroom window, Grace sees him. Yes, that’s him. That’s the one. She recognizes him even from this distance. It’s the way he walks, with a rounded back and a swagger. That’s what she’d call it. A swagger. And then he lifts his left hand. One other time she’s seen him and it was his left hand. He draws it down over his chin, his beard. This is how he trains it. Over and over, stroking the short, dark beard, drawing those fingers together, drawing them to a point.

James is gone and Grace is glad for it. A few minutes ago, he left the house. Go to Julia’s, Grace had said to him after he reported to her what she already knew. While he sat at the kitchen table, telling her Elizabeth was gone for good, Grace stood beside her ironing board, her new steam iron in hand, one of James’s Sunday shirts laid out before her. She worked the iron back and forth over the shirt’s yoke, every so often pressing a button to release a stream of water. It was supposed to make life easier, more manageable. No more sprinkling from a bottle or pre-dampening in the sink. The iron sizzled and hissed and she inhaled the light steam. James thought she was pale and that her eyes were red and swollen because Elizabeth was gone and because the ironing was too much work. It was the moment she should have told him about the man who came for her and for Elizabeth and that she worried he hadn’t set things right yet, so he’d come again for the twins or someone else. But she said nothing.

Julia was right. It was Grace’s fault Elizabeth died. She would bear the weight of that truth for the rest of her life. And because she didn’t tell James in that quiet moment sitting in the kitchen as he stroked the back of her hand and brushed his fingers across her cheeks, she was dooming herself to carry the weight of what was yet to come. Saying none of these things to James, she asked him to check on Julia and the girls. Bill’s not yet home. She’ll need your help. She’ll have to tell the twins about Elizabeth and she shouldn’t do that alone. Sit with her awhile, make sure she and the girls are well, and then hurry home for supper. Grace owed Julia something-an apology, an admission, some sign of regret-but her husband was all she had to offer. She also knew the men would soon pass by her house, every day at five o’clock, and that today, the one who had come for her would be among them. Elizabeth was never a danger to him. Only Grace. But she lied to the police. She said it never happened. She made it safe for him to return, and so she sent James away.

With her hands clasped under her belly, Grace crosses the bedroom and stands at the back window. She rests her fingertips on the cool marble sill. In the alley below, Orin Schofield sits in his chair just as she knew he would. He’s hunched over, maybe asleep. His rifle will be propped against his garage within easy reach but where the other neighbors won’t see it and take it away from him again. Go to Julia’s, Grace had told James, and now she’s happy for it.

There are four of them today. They walk with a slow, lazy pace and are only just past the house when Grace pushes open the kitchen door.

“Orin,” she calls out toward the alley. “I need you, Orin.”

She waits, listens. The chair will creak when he stands. Hearing nothing, she calls out again, louder this time, but not so loud that the men walking down the street will hear.

“Orin, up here. I need you up here at the house.”

The metal chair whines. In a few moments, he’ll appear around the side of the garage. She wonders if he knows Elizabeth is gone and that the man walking down their street took her and killed her and whatever else he did, Grace cannot let herself imagine.

“You there.”

Now Grace shouts so the men will hear and so Orin will know there’s trouble and bring his rifle. She walks to the end of the driveway, slowly at first, but then more quickly. She doesn’t want them to get too near Julia’s house, where James might see them.

“You there. You stop.”

The street is quiet for this time of day. Having received word Elizabeth was pulled from the river, the husbands are already home. Garage doors are closed, curtains are drawn, even windows, it seems, have been shut because the usual sounds of supper being served-glasses knocking against one another, a stray piece of silverware being dropped, someone shuffling a stack of everyday china-have been silenced. Even though Grace can’t hear them, she knows her neighbors are sitting down to the table, all of them whispering about the funeral that will come and wondering what will follow. Will Alder Avenue ever be the same, or has it changed-have their lives changed-in a lasting way? Grace glances behind her. Still no sign of Orin.

Only two of the men hear her and turn. The man with the beard continues his slow pace. Across the street, Mrs. Wallace, who had been sweeping her porch, props her broom against her house, walks inside, and closes the door. The two men look at Grace and then at each other. The first jabs the second in the side, shrugs, and they hurry down the street to catch up to the other men.

“Yes, you,” Grace shouts. “I mean you.”

The baby hangs heavy today, heavier always at the end of the day. That’ll mean a boy, Mother likes to say. But Grace thinks it means only a strong, healthy baby.

“How can you walk here?” she says.

Behind her, two footsteps and a tap, two footsteps and a tap. Orin is using his gun like a cane, just as he did the three-foot length of wood. He must see her and the men, too, because the steps and the tap quicken. Soon she’ll hear him breathing. He’ll cough because the walking is a strain. If she could turn toward him, she’d see his face flushed, sweat dripping from his temples, a white button-down shirt wilted and clinging to his soft midsection. Only one man pays her attention this time. He looks at Grace and then to each side as if wondering whom she means to question.

“Ma’am?”

He’s the one who couldn’t watch. Grace’s memory of him is correct. His lids droop over his large brown eyes in a way that makes him appear kinder and more thoughtful than the others. He let it happen but couldn’t bring himself to watch.

“I know what he did,” Grace shouts. “I know it was him.”

Two others turn, but the bearded man stands with his back to Grace. The footsteps and the tapping have stopped. Grace points so Orin will know which one. She points at the tallest man. His wide shoulders roll forward. Thick veins run like cords from his wrists to his elbows. Grace can’t see them from such a distance, but she knows they’re there because that night, he hovered over her, those arms flanking her, trapping her. Like the other three, he turns. He looks past her at first, past both her and Orin as if they’re not worth noticing, and then his eyes focus. They settle on Grace.

“Did you know, Orin? They found our Elizabeth today. Pulled her from the river.” Grace lifts her hand again. Points. “That’s the one who took her and dumped her like garbage.”

Orin must be tired. Every morning, every evening, and late every night he waits in the alley. He must have wondered why the men stopped coming, or maybe he thought he kept them at bay. Maybe he has felt pride these days since Elizabeth disappeared. For the first time in many years, he must have felt useful, powerful even. But now he sees the men are here on the street. He hasn’t frightened them away, and it’s Grace who has stripped him of his pride.

“Orin,” she says again because he doesn’t move. “That one there. That one.”

“Thought for sure you’d tell.”

The sound of his voice, pitched so much deeper than James’s, knocks Grace backward. She’s remembering the smell of this man-spicy cologne sprayed on much earlier in the day and the sour patch under each arm. He knows the police came to see her. He knows the officers questioned her and that she lied. This is why he’s back. It’s safe for him now. Someone was arrested, someone stronger and less selfish than Grace. It may have been the man with the soft, kind eyes. Whoever it was, he was strong enough to try to stop it from happening again. He told the police a woman was hurt at 721 Alder. A pregnant woman, badly injured. But Grace lied. Because she wanted to protect her marriage and the life she had planned for her daughter, she had smiled for the officers, hid the ache in her tailbone and the stiffness in her neck, and now the man is back, walking down Alder Avenue, caring so little about what he did that he is scarcely able to recognize Grace.

“I know you did it,” she says.

It’s a whisper now. At her side, Orin shuffles forward. Standing, when normally he sits, he struggles with the gun’s weight.

“What’d I do?” the one says, looking to the others who stand at his side. “Any of you all know?”

The men shake their heads. The man with the lids that droop kicks at the ground and crosses his arms. It’s not only Elizabeth whom Grace has harmed, it’s this kinder man too. She wants to lay a hand on his shoulder to calm him. Stop your fidgeting, that’s what Mother would have said. As if knowing Grace’s thoughts, the man with the beard trained by three fingers wraps a hand around the kinder man’s shoulder, presses, probably squeezes, and the kinder man stands still.

“You must be mistaken, ma’am,” the man with the beard says. “If nobody tells, then nothing happened. Ain’t that the way it goes?”

From the corner of her eye, Grace sees a flash. It’s the late-day sun reflecting off dark metal. A thin barrel rises and levels off. Orin coughs. Each breath is a struggle for him. It wasn’t always so bad. Every year, the breathing, the walking, the standing, all of it becomes harder for him. The doctors give shots now that burn and pinch and what happened to Orin won’t happen to the rest of them. He nods in the direction of the men, confirming which is his target. The man knows Grace didn’t tell. He knows she never will and he knows the kinder man betrayed him.

“No, Orin,” Grace says. She rests her palm on the thin barrel and pushes it toward the ground. It’s the way Mr. Williamson lowered it the day Orin shot into her garage. “No.”

With his large hand wrapped around the kinder man’s shoulder, the man who ruined Grace and killed Elizabeth takes a shallow bow. He knew she wouldn’t do it, and he turns and they all walk away. But because Grace is too weak, they’ll come again.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Julia stands in front of her refrigerator, staring inside. She should be getting supper on the table for the twins and Bill. From the top shelf, she grabs a loaf of banana bread tightly wrapped in aluminum foil. Some of her bananas were too ripe for pudding, so she used them to make bread because waste not, want not. She squeezes the tightly wrapped loaf until the ends pop open and then tosses it across the kitchen toward the trash can sitting at the back door. She grabs three more foil-wrapped loaves, all of them meant to feed the searchers tomorrow, but the search is over and all this food will go to waste after all. Like the first loaf, she throws all three across the kitchen. Next she slides out a pale blue casserole dish trimmed in a white Butterprint pattern. It’s her banana pudding with a three-inch meringue, also meant to go to the church tomorrow. Her meringues never bleed or weep, and this one, like all the others, is perfect. Sliding her palm under the cool dish, she holds it near her shoulder and launches it at the trash can, where it shatters against the wall. Next, the baby lima beans in cream sauce. They’ve always been Bill’s favorite. They sail across the room in a lemon-colored casserole dish and splatter on contact-the flat, pasty beans first sticking to the wall and then falling away to the floor.

“Aunt Julia.”

Julia swings around.

“Is something bad happening?” Izzy says. She stands in the kitchen entry, one hand on Arie’s shoulder, the other hanging limp at her side. Both girls’ feet are bare and their hair is damp from their bath.

“No,” Julia says. “It’s nothing. You two get on back upstairs.”

Arie steps away, but Izzy doesn’t move.

“Is it Elizabeth? Did they find her?”

“Not now, Izzy. Later, when Uncle Bill gets home.”

“I wasn’t doing anything bad,” Izzy says. “I was only looking for Patches. You never let us look.”

Arie has continued to back down the hallway, but Izzy stands firm.

“I’m sorry I pretended. Arie didn’t know. I was only-”

“I said, upstairs now.”

“But Aunt Julia, we-”

“You’ll never find that cat.”

Julia reaches into the refrigerator and pulls out the last loaf of banana bread, rears back, and throws it. The small, tightly bound package hits the wall with a thud.

“That cat is at your grandmother’s house, way across town, and it’s probably dead by now.”

Izzy’s bottom lip pokes out. “That’s not true. There’s no reason to think she’s dead.”

Turning her back on Izzy, Julia says, “Upstairs. Now.”

Julia stares at the mess she has made until the girls’ bedroom door slams shut. Once she is certain they have settled in, she walks over to the foyer and takes a quick look out the front of the house. No sign of Bill, even though the other husbands are home for the evening. She drops the curtain and at the entryway table picks up the tattered, yellowing article about the Willows that Malina returned. Julia’s unfolded and refolded it so many times, it has begun to tear along the creases. Back in the kitchen, she stands alongside the trash can splattered with yellow pudding, banana slivers, and slippery beans, and lets the flimsy sheet drop.

Julia used to tell herself she kept the article because she loved the house pictured in it. A crisply painted balustrade wraps around the front porch and rounded arches stretch between the squared-off columns that support the second-story patio. Looking at the picture now, a greasy stain ballooning in its center, she imagines the unwed girls sit on that top patio when the weather is nice. They must be lonely, shipped off to Kansas City to quietly give birth to their babies. The girls come from all over the country because every railroad leads directly to Kansas City and eventually to 2929 Main Street, the Willows. Julia pulls the article from the trash, wipes it on her apron, and holds it close. There might be someone sitting on the small, private porch. In the grainy print, she can’t be certain, but if she went there in person, she could see for herself.

Uncertain how long she has stood in the kitchen and stared at the faded picture, it’s a knock that rouses her. When she opens the door, James stands there, one hand propped against the side of the house. His sleeves are rolled up and his shirttail is untucked. It’s the same double-stitched chambray work shirt Bill wears on weekends. The same navy twill pants. The same black leather work boots with the steel-tipped toes. When Bill used to come home at the end of the day, he would always do the same-yank out his shirttail. Sometimes, after he walked through the door, Julia would unbutton his shirt for him and slip it off his shoulders, leaving him in his undershirt. Before Maryanne was born, he would help Julia out of her shirt too, and they would make love on the living-room floor.

“Everything all right down here?” James says, pushing off the side of the house and glancing down the street. “Grace asked me to check in.”

Julia pushes open the screen door and invites him inside. As he passes, she inhales the warm air he brings with him. He smells the same as Bill always did. Is it grease? Oil? Metal shavings? Even though he didn’t work at the factory today, James carries that smell. She feels his footsteps through the floorboards. He fills up the entry, blocks the light shining through the sheers in the dining room.

“Julia?” James says, staring into the kitchen. “What’s happened?”

Julia tucks the article back in the drawer where she has kept it for the last year. “Bill won’t have another baby with me,” she says.

She can only say it because James isn’t looking at her. He’s looking at the pudding dripping down her wall and the browning slivers of banana stuck to the side of her trash can.

“Won’t even touch me.”

Unable to face him, she talks to the floor. The black boots come toward her. Warm hands grip her shoulders.

“I used to be the one who couldn’t take care of her own baby,” Julia says, her cheek resting on James’s chest. “Now I’m the one who couldn’t take care of Elizabeth. Caught the same trout twice, I suppose.”

With her eyes closed, it could be Bill before everything went wrong. The hands are sturdy. He’s broad like Bill, and tall. Makes her feel small. She’s usually the tallest woman. They called her lanky as a child. All arms and legs. Mother said she’d outgrow the awkward stage, said Julia would stop growing up and start filling out. Now it’s James standing in front of her, smelling like oil or grease or metal shavings. When she reaches out to touch his chest, it feels like Bill’s. Stiff fabric, small reinforced buttons, warm. She leans into him. The hands that cupped her arms slip over her shoulders and down where they wrap around her waist and draw her in.

Making her way across the garage, Malina tiptoes around the many bags of clothes she has accumulated for the thrift drive. Upstairs, Mr. Herze is napping, so she’ll work quickly and quietly. He hasn’t made use of his tools since he took down the storm windows this past spring, and he won’t make use of them during the hot summer months. By the time autumn arrives and he takes it upon himself to repair a fence railing or replace a windowsill, he’ll have long since forgotten he once owned a red-handled hammer. He’ll have no reason to wonder what became of it or why a brown-handled hammer hangs in its place.

Now that Elizabeth has been found, things will return to normal. The men will go back to work, and the ladies will continue their plans for the bake sale. When she reaches Mr. Herze’s workbench, Malina stretches across the smooth wooden slab, grabs the brown-handled hammer, and lifts it from the pegboard. It’s brand-new, the cleanest of all the tools. No sense getting herself dirty when she’ll have to get supper on the table shortly.

Outside the garage, Malina rests her arms on the top rail of the cedar fence surrounding her backyard. The fence offers plenty of privacy, and the gates on either side of the house are secured by a slide-bolt latch. Alternating yellow, white, pink, and red flowers line the yard’s outer limits. The plants are happier here in the backyard, taller than in the front, probably because of the shade thrown by the Petersons’ elm, one of the few left standing on the street. Its branches dip over her fence. No telling what kind of sickness that tree will dump in her yard. Feeling the seam on her right nylon is not quite straight, she yanks it into place, and seeing no one out and about because they’ve all been frightened indoors by news of Elizabeth’s death, she slips through the gate. She’ll start here. It’s definitely the spot those twins would first come upon were they to sneak into Malina’s backyard.

The sweet officer with the smooth blond hair hadn’t helped Malina. After the twin was safely home, Malina had followed Mr. Herze inside and from her front window she watched Julia and Grace argue on the street. When Mr. Herze called down the stairs that he would be bathing and taking a nap before supper, Malina shuffled through her papers until she found the number that the young blond officer gave to her. She telephoned the officer and told him someone had urinated on her flowers. She told him those twin girls living across the street were most probably the culprits. They run amok, trespass on private property, stay out past suppertime. They don’t even belong on this street. They have a perfectly good grandmother living somewhere east of Woodward. Consider what happened to poor Elizabeth Symanski. How much more tragedy could a neighborhood suffer? Could it bear the same happening to two young, innocent children? Couldn’t the officer see to it that those twins went home? But the officer, who wasn’t so sweet over the telephone where Malina couldn’t see his silky blond hair and thin red lips, told her kids would be kids and there wasn’t anything he could or would do.

Cupping the telephone’s mouthpiece to stifle the sound of her voice, Malina went so far as to beg. She wanted to make the officer understand that the gift of those flyers meant Mr. Herze’s interests had festered. And now she’s been told those girls might stay on, might stay on forever. She wanted the officer to understand this was always the way and Malina knew better than Mr. Herze what came next. There have been others for Mr. Herze, mostly women. But like the girl from Willingham, it can be difficult to tell. Could be a girl. Could be a woman. Such a thin line between the two. When it happens, Malina will see it in the twin’s eyes, whichever one Mr. Herze chooses. It will be an expression others might mistake for shock and then sadness and finally resignation. They’ll wonder why the girl’s eyes are suddenly hollowed out and darker than before. All the signs, Malina ignored them. The girls were supposed to go home in a few weeks. Every other year, they stayed only a few weeks. But Malina said nothing of Mr. Herze’s gift to the girls or all the other things she knew. Unless the twins cause you or your property damage, the sweet officer had said, there really is nothing I can or will do.

Because Arie is scared, because Arie is always scared, Izzy has to drag her down the stairs toward the front door. But Izzy is wrong. Arie isn’t scared, she’s worried. Aunt Julia doesn’t usually yell and throw food and say things like a cat is dead when probably it isn’t. Izzy keeps tugging, getting angrier with every stair. They tug back and forth, silently, making twisted-up angry faces at each other, all the way across the entry and out the door. It’s not fair Izzy always has to be the brave one and the strong one and the only one who will fight back. Arie tugs the other way because sometimes it’s best to stop and think and Grandma always says calmer heads prevail. Before Aunt Julia or Mr. Richardson, who both stand inside the kitchen, can notice the girls sneaking from the house, they have run outside, off the porch, and across the lawn.

On Izzy’s way back from Beersdorf’s, she said she tried to put out the stolen tuna, but when she couldn’t get it open, she threw it away and hung up some of the flyers Mr. Herze gave her. As he handed her the stack of flyers and a roll of gray tape, he said she had to keep them a secret, not tell anyone where she got them or he’d be in trouble. He made her promise not to go off on her own to do the searching, but she did. She also taped a bunch of flyers to poles and on the sides of houses and buildings. Now she wanted Arie to go with her so they could take them all down before Aunt Julia found them and Izzy got in trouble all over again.

When they reach the middle of Alder, they stop running and check behind them. No sign of Aunt Julia or Mr. Richardson. Every house on the block is locked up tight. Across the street, Mrs. Herze walks out of her garage and that’s a hammer in her hand. Arie tugs on Izzy’s shirt so she’ll see Mrs. Herze too. Standing between the garage and the side of her house, Mrs. Herze checks both ways like she’s crossing a street, but since there isn’t any traffic, she must be checking for who might catch her doing whatever it is she is doing. Now, instead of tugging back and forth, the girls link up hands and when Mrs. Herze opens the gate and disappears around the back of her house, they follow.

A wooden fence runs around Mrs. Herze’s backyard, but it’s easy enough for the twins to look through the slats and see what’s going on back there. No longer concerned with who might be watching, Mrs. Herze drops the hammer into the grass, tucks her skirt around her knees, and lowers herself to the ground. Picking up the hammer again, she lifts it overhead with both hands and brings it down in the center of a tower of pink blossoms. The petals spray up as the hammer hits the ground with a soft thud. She lifts the hammer again, takes another swing. This time, white petals and green leaves scatter and a sweet smell oozes from the crushed and broken stems. Reaching out as far as she can in both directions along the fence line, Mrs. Herze beats those flowers. For several minutes, she pounds left then right, like two little feet marching through her snapdragons. When she can reach no farther, even by bracing herself with one hand, she sits back and tosses the hammer to her side. It bounces off the gate, rattling the slide bolt.

“You’re going to blame that on us,” Izzy says, “aren’t you?”

Using her forearm, carefully like she’s afraid to touch her face with dirty fingers, Mrs. Herze wipes the hair from her eyes. Her chest pumps and sweat bubbles hang on her upper lip.

“You two have no business in my yard,” she says. “No business at all.”

Arie tucks her chin, sorry that she dragged Izzy over here because now they’re going to get in trouble, and Aunt Julia is going to know they snuck out of the house when they were supposed to be upstairs in their room.

“We think there might be a dead cat around here,” Izzy says, lifting her chin to make up for Arie’s drooping one. “Have you seen it?”

“Yes, that cat is dead and I did see it with my very own eyes. Dead as could be. Now you two can go away, back to that grandmother of yours, and stop running around this neighborhood in search of that godforsaken animal. You stop or you’ll end up just like Elizabeth Symanski.”

“You ruined these flowers and you’re going to blame us.” Izzy pokes Arie in the side so she’ll agree.

Mrs. Herze presses both palms flat on the ground, pushes herself off her knees, and brushes pink and white blossoms from her skirt.

“I’m doing no such thing,” Mrs. Herze says. “I imagine you two will have some explaining to do. I suspect your aunt will be ever so interested to see this mess. And I know she’ll believe me because you two have been nothing but trouble for that woman since you arrived.”

“You’re a liar.” Again, Izzy is the one to speak up.

Mrs. Herze smooths the apron that hangs at her waist. “My word against yours,” she says.

“Not quite,” Arie says, then reaches over the fence, flips the slide-bolt latch, and scoops up the hammer lying in the grass. Finally, she is the brave one, the quick-thinking one, the one who will make everything better.

Izzy lets out a cheer, claps her hands, and the two run away, leaving the gate hanging wide open.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Standing in her entryway, her cheek resting on James’s chest, Julia inhales. The air around Grace’s husband is warm. He’s thick and solid, what a man should be. This could be her life before. Before Maryanne died. Before Elizabeth Symanski died. Before Bill drifted away. Before.

She draws up her hands to James’s neck, weaves her fingers into the ends of his hair where it curls, tilts her face, and pulls him toward her. The clock over the stove ticks. A fan in the front room squeals as it rolls from side to side. In the distance, a car door slams. Julia presses against him. Raising one hand to the back of her head, James rests the other on her waist. He makes a sound as if clearing his throat, pulls back before their lips touch, drops both hands, lifts them out to the side, and stumbles away. They stand, neither of them moving. The doorknob rattles, and the front door swings open.

Wearing the same double-stitched work shirt as James, Bill walks into the house. No one would notice the way his steps are just off center, but Julia does. Soon enough, his face will swell again from the drinking, and his skin will take on a yellow cast. He’s later than all the other husbands but has made it home in time for supper. He doesn’t notice James and Julia as he fumbles with the lock on the door. His keys rattle and he steadies himself by holding on to the doorknob. With one good tug, his key comes loose. He straightens and turns. Saying nothing, he crosses his arms and his eyes come to rest on James, who has dropped his hands back to his sides.

“Didn’t expect to find you here,” Bill says.

James is almost ten years older than Bill and holds a higher-grade job at the factory. He was Bill’s first supervisor and helped him keep his job during that difficult year after Maryanne died.

“James came to check in on the girls,” Julia says. “He wanted to see to it that they were all right. That we were all right.”

With the back of her hand, Julia wipes her mouth even though her lips never touched James’s. The pulse of her beating heart carries to her eardrums, making it difficult to hear. She hugs herself with both arms.

“Can see to those girls myself,” Bill says.

“Grace asked that I check in on them,” James says. “Will be on my way now that you’re home.”

Bill takes a small backward step, giving way to James.

“Good enough,” Bill says.

The men stand face-to-face, filling up the small entry.

“Good enough,” James says after a long silence, and reaches for the doorknob. “I’m sure Grace will be checking in real soon, Julia.”

Julia looks up from the floor at the sound of small feet running up the stairs and across the porch. The twins stop short, one bumping into the other, both of them stumbling across the threshold. One of them, Arie, lifts a hammer with both hands as if it’s a trophy. She lowers it at the sight of Bill and James staring at each other.

“Leave that outside,” Julia says, and waves at the girls to hurry past and go straight to their room.

Outside the door, Arie sets the hammer on the porch, wipes her hands on her shirt, and follows Izzy upstairs.

“All right, then,” James says, reaching out to pat Bill on the shoulder. “You all have a nice evening.”

The walk back home is slow for Grace and Orin. When the colored men have reached the intersection of Alder Avenue and Woodward, Grace hurries Orin along because James will stay only a short time at Julia’s house and no good will come from him finding the twosome out on the street. After walking a few yards, Grace has to carry the rifle for Orin. With the barrel pointed down, she hugs it to her side where a passerby won’t notice what is cradled in her arms. When they have neared the house, Grace hears the twins. They are out and about again even though Grace tried to warn Julia to keep a closer eye. The street is otherwise silent. Grace stops every few yards to give Orin a chance to rest and to look over her shoulder for any sign of James. Orin says his shoes are pinching his feet and Grace says they’ll soak them when he gets home. At Grace’s house, they step onto her driveway and continue to shuffle toward the alley. Once there, Orin points at his chair. Still holding the rifle, Grace steadies the rusted seat, but before Orin can lower himself, James appears at her side, reaches for the rifle, and yanks it from her.

“What in God’s name?” he says, holding the gun in one hand and grabbing Orin by the arm with the other. “How did you get this back? Good Lord in heaven, what are you doing?”

Orin drops into his chair, pulls a yellowed kerchief from his pocket, and mops his forehead. “Taking care,” he says between breaths. “Taking goddamn care.”

“James, please,” Grace says. “Don’t fuss. There’s been no trouble.”

“I see trouble written all over this gun. You get inside. I’ll see to Orin.”

From her bedroom window, Grace again looks down on the alley as James helps Orin home. When they have disappeared, she slides open her closet door to hang up James’s freshly ironed shirts. She is always precise as to how she hangs them. White ones first, because he wears those on Sundays, and then his darker shirts for evenings at home and weekend projects. The tip of every collar is pressed to a sharp point and the cuffs hang down stiff. On weekends, when James tinkers with his car or mows the lawn, he rolls his sleeves, ruining the sharply pressed cuffs. After a few moments, the kitchen door opens. Footsteps on the stairs.

“Gracie?”

In one hand, James carries his work boots. He rests the other on Grace’s shoulder, leans in, and kisses her cheek. She covers his hand with hers, squeezes.

“Orin told me something happened,” he says. “You were talking to some colored men? He says you wanted him to shoot one of them? Is that true, Gracie? I told him that couldn’t be true.”

“Do I seem at all different to you?”

James lets out a long breath, probably tired of nothing going as it should, tired of something always being troublesome. “Well, sure,” James says. “You’re bigger.”

“But I’m different,” she says, letting her gaze float from the lifeless shirts to James. “Don’t I seem it?”

James squats in the open closet and slips his boots onto the shoe rack. He stands and unbuttons his shirt. Since this heat settled in, he stopped wearing an undershirt. Dark, wiry hair forms a long triangle on his chest that disappears below his brown leather belt. He turns toward the closet as if looking for something, pulls off his shirt, lets it slip first off one shoulder and then the other. He tosses it behind him so it lands on the bed and bends down again. When he stands, Grace’s white shoe dangles from one finger as it did the day he first discovered it in the closet.

“You’re fine, Gracie,” he says, staring at the shoe and not Grace. Something will be gnawing at him, though he might not be certain what it is. Maybe he’ll be wondering how one shoe found its way into the garage, where he crushed it with his car, while the other found its way safely to the rack in his closet. “You’re beautiful. Now, tell me what happened out there? Orin said one of them spoke to you. What did he say?”

“It’s no never mind,” Grace says, backing away from James to sit on the edge of the bed. She rests her hands in her lap.

“Orin told me. The man said you didn’t tell. What did he mean?”

Grace folds her hands together. “When will the funeral be? Do you know?”

“Not yet.” The shoe still dangles from one finger. “Don’t you worry about that. Please, Gracie. What aren’t you telling me?”

“The fire,” she says. “It was the fire in the garage. I told you it was probably just the girls playing with fireworks.”

“And?”

“I didn’t really think that. I only told you it was the girls so you wouldn’t worry, so you’d think it was a harmless accident. I think it was the men from the alley, the ones who leave the broken glass. I thought you’d be angry, maybe get into an argument.”

James nods as if he understands but his brow sits low over his eyes and he chews on the inside of his cheek the same way he does when he reads in the newspaper about another factory closing its doors. He slips the shoe over the rack and walks up to Grace.

“Do you know what happened to Elizabeth, Gracie? Was it one of those men? Was it the one you pointed out to Orin?”

Grace fingers the narrow lace that trims the hem of her full blouse.

“Someone killed Elizabeth, Gracie. It wasn’t an accident.”

Grace shakes her head and continues to run her fingers along the rough lace edging.

“They shot her in the back of the head,” James says and points to a spot above his ear. “Here, they shot her right here. If you know something, you have to tell me.”

“James, stop,” Grace says. “Stop saying these terrible things.”

“What do you know, Gracie? Tell me now.”

“Orin is confused,” she says, sliding a few feet toward the end of the bed so she can stand and walk past James to the bedroom door. “Orin’s confused, is all.” She walks into the hallway. “I have supper for Mr. Symanski. You’ll run it down to him? This is all so awful. Who would do such a thing to Elizabeth?”

“Gracie?”

“Wash up,” she says. “Supper in fifteen minutes.”