Until She Comes Home (20 page)

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?”

M
alina 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.