Until She Comes Home (18 page)

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.

A
fter 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.”