Until She Comes Home (23 page)

I
t’s nearly suppertime. Izzy and Arie are especially hungry because Aunt Julia never made lunch and they had to fend for themselves. Izzy stands at the end of her bed and yanks the bottom two corners of her bedspread, but because she never bothered to straighten the sheets beneath, it won’t ever look as tidy as Arie’s. Izzy crosses both hands over her rumbling stomach and takes a good long look at her work. For the second time, Arie says that she would like to help but can’t because it’s against the rules, but do a good job and Aunt Julia might fry up some chicken for supper. Izzy says she can fix her own bed, thank you very much and now she wishes Arie hadn’t mentioned fried chicken because her stomach hurts even worse.

Arie always makes her bed first thing in the morning. She will tug at her sheets until they are taut, tuck sharp hospital corners, and snap her bedspread so it floats smoothly, perfectly down over the bed. Deciding she doesn’t care about a smooth quilt even if it means no supper, Izzy flops down on her mattress, folds her arms behind her head, and wonders why Aunt Julia would throw food against the kitchen wall and if Uncle Bill will ever come home again or if he, like Izzy’s mom, is gone for good.

Sitting on her own perfectly made bed, Arie shakes her head at Izzy and continues to work the tip of a steak knife through the belt they found in Mrs. Richardson’s garage. Before starting, Arie had measured out the size of Patches’ neck as best she could remember so when she eventually works the knife through, they’ll be able to buckle the belt to create a loop that is the perfect size.

“Girls?” It’s Aunt Julia tapping on the door. “May I come in?”

The door opens and Aunt Julia walks into the room. Her face and neck are red and her hair is mussed on top. If she had been downstairs frying chicken, she’d be wearing her white cotton bib apron, but she’s not. Izzy sure was hoping for fried chicken.

“Do you girls need to talk about Elizabeth?” Aunt Julia says. “Do you have questions?”

Both shake their heads. They saw Elizabeth only a few times a year. Sometimes they would sit with her while Aunt Julia talked with Mr. and Mrs. Symanski, but she never spoke.

“Then I think we need to have a conversation about stealing?” Aunt Julia says.

Izzy and Arie had hoped Aunt Julia was going to tell them not to worry, that Uncle Bill would be home soon and that the argument was just a silly thing between grown-ups. That’s what they had hoped for. That, and a plate of chicken.

“I would have thought you knew better,” Aunt Julia says.

“Izzy did it,” Arie says, holding the knife in one hand and the belt in the other. The clear jewels on the small buckle shine because she cleaned them with a cotton ball and rubbing alcohol. Arie points the knife at Izzy. “I wasn’t even there.” And then she lowers the knife when she remembers she’s not supposed to ever point one. “Sorry,” she says, even though Aunt Julia didn’t see.

Aunt Julia exhales and blinks slowly like she’s tired of teaching the two of them a lesson. She waves Izzy off her bed, pulls back the bedspread, and begins straightening and smoothing her sheets.

“You didn’t have any,” Izzy says. “I checked all the cupboards. We needed it for Patches. I’ll pay him back.”

“I’ll help earn the money,” Arie says, already feeling bad for telling on Izzy.

Aunt Julia tucks two perfect hospital corners on Izzy’s bed, shakes out the blue spread, and lets it fall into place. “You’ll pay who back?” she says, then sits and cradles Izzy’s pillow in her arms.

“Mr. Beersdorf.”

“The hammer belongs to Mr. Beersdorf?” Aunt Julia fluffs the pillow and, holding it by two corners, gives it a good shake and props it against the center of the headboard. “You know you aren’t supposed to go that far.”

“No,” Izzy says. “That’s Mrs. Herze’s hammer.”

“Why do you have Malina’s hammer, of all things?”

Arie scoots to the edge of her mattress and lets her legs hang over the edge. She sets the knife on the dresser between their two beds and lays the belt over her lap. “We saw her pounding her flowers with it and she was going to blame us. She tries to blame everything on us. We didn’t do anything. We caught her and I took it so we could show you. We weren’t stealing.”

“So the hammer belongs to Malina?” she says. “Why, then, do you owe Mr. Beersdorf money?”

“I stole a can of tuna from him,” Izzy says.

Instead of whirling around to face Izzy, Aunt Julia stares at the belt spread across Arie’s lap. The buckle glitters where it catches the sunlight.

“I wanted to put out tuna for Patches because she loves it. It was my idea. All my idea. Arie didn’t even know. I tricked you into thinking I was Arie and I went to Beersdorf’s by myself.”

Aunt Julia says nothing.

Arie glances at Izzy and then at Aunt Julia. Arie wants Izzy to tell her what’s wrong with Aunt Julia, but Izzy doesn’t know. Aunt Julia stands and lifts the thin belt from Arie’s lap.

“Where did you get this?” Aunt Julia asks, pulling the belt through a loose fist. When she reaches the buckle, she runs her pointer finger over the tiny, clear jewels.

Arie is frightened because Izzy can feel it deep in her chest. Izzy can hear her own heartbeat too, and the inside of her mouth swells until it feels too small for her tongue. That means Arie is feeling the same.

“Mrs. Richardson was going to throw it away,” Arie says.

“It was with her trash,” Izzy says. “We only took it because it was trash. It’s going to be a leash for Patches.”

Izzy stands so she can show Aunt Julia where Arie was making a new hole in the thin piece of leather, but Aunt Julia jerks the belt away.

“This is not Mrs. Richardson’s belt. This is Elizabeth Symanski’s.” She waves the belt in Arie’s face. “Where did you get it?”

“That’s not right,” Izzy says, slipping around Aunt Julia to sit next to Arie. She takes Arie’s hand. “It was trash in Mrs. Richardson’s garage.”

“You stole this from Mr. Symanski?” Aunt Julia shakes her head as she says it. “I can’t imagine you would do such a thing. How could you?”

“No,” Izzy says.

Arie’s eyes are closed and she is shaking her head so she doesn’t have to look at the belt. “We’d never steal from Elizabeth, never steal from Mr. Symanski.”

Aunt Julia hugs the belt to her chest. “How will I ever explain this to him? His daughter isn’t even buried yet and you’re stealing from her.”

“We didn’t, Aunt Julia,” Izzy says. “We didn’t.”

“Let me make one thing perfectly clear. You are forbidden, and I mean forbidden, to leave this house. And I assume that hammer belongs to Mr. Herze, not Mrs. Herze. He’s just come home, so you’ll return it now. See that you apologize and then straight back here with you both. I imagine Uncle Bill will treat you to a whipping and then give you chores to earn money so you can repay Mr. Beersdorf.” Holding the belt against her chest with both hands, Aunt Julia walks from the room.

“We didn’t steal it,” Izzy shouts after her. “I promise, we didn’t steal.”

“In this house,” Aunt Julia says, pausing in the doorway, “your promises amount to nothing.”

•   •   •

Taking tiny steps so as to not trip over the curb, Malina walks faster, almost runs from Grace’s house to hers, ignoring the cars that drive past, all of them carrying husbands home to supper. Though her hair falls into her eyes, she can’t stop to brush it away because in her arms she carries three bags of clothes. By the time she reaches the sidewalk leading to her house, she knows she’s too late. Mr. Herze’s blue sedan sits in the driveway and on the porch—her porch—stand those twins.

Mr. Herze leans in the doorway like a younger man might do, his body loose, one leg crossed over the other. In his hands, he holds something and shakes his head.

“What are you two doing here?” Malina says. “You shouldn’t be bothering Mr. Herze.”

“Aunt Julia made us,” the one twin says. “She said we stole and we have to apologize to both of you.”

Malina walks up the stairs and positions herself between the twins, forcing them to stumble as they move aside.

“What on earth have you done?” she says, and drops the bags. Flimsy blouses and rumpled skirts scatter at Mr. Herze’s feet.

“Malina?” Mr. Herze says.

A shiny silver hammer with a brown handle lies in Mr. Herze’s open palm. It’s clean again, as if Julia scrubbed and dried it before sending the girls to return it.

“These girls say they took this from our backyard,” Mr. Herze says, holding the hammer out for Malina to inspect.

She touches the smooth brown handle. “Is it yours?”

“Not mine,” Mr. Herze says.

“She was pounding down her flowers,” the one twin says. It’s the loud one who is entirely too full of herself. “We saw her and she was going to blame us. She told us our cat was dead and that we ruined those flowers. She says we trampled them and peed on them. That’s why we took the hammer.”

Mr. Herze shoves the tool at Malina. “Is this true?”

“How can it be true if we don’t own such a hammer? They’re telling tales. I shouldn’t venture to guess why.”

The timid twin backs down the stairs.

“We have to give it back,” the mouthy twin says. “We took it and we’re sorry. It’s yours.” And she jumps from the porch, grabs the other one’s hand, and together they run across the lawn, leap Malina’s hedge of wilted snapdragons, and sprint across the street.

“I went looking for my hammer,” Mr. Herze says. “Wanted to assure those two this wasn’t mine.” He wraps his hand around the handle and taps the flat head in his palm. “Couldn’t find it.”

Malina tucks under her skirt and kneels to the clothes spilled across her porch. These must be Elizabeth Symanski’s things. So much lavender and pink. She did love her pastels, even though they washed her out. As Malina shoves the clothes back into the bags, she says, “I’m sure I don’t know anything about hammers and such.”

Shoving the last of the clothes into the bags, Malina gathers them, but before she can stand, Mr. Herze’s hand strikes her left cheek. She stumbles across the porch, falls into the banister, and the bags of clothes fly into the front yard. The railing knocks the wind out of her. Her diaphragm contracts like a fist opening and closing. She gasps for air, trying to fill her lungs, and presses both hands over her cheek. Beneath this cover, the sting fades to a burn. She sucks in one good breath and glances at the neighbors on either side.

“Was it you?” Mr. Herze says. Sweat trickles down the sides of his face and disappears into his jowls. “You’re best served to tell me now. Did you kill her?”

Malina drops her hands from her face. It’s the strangest of feelings, when a person has the wind knocked out of her. The body wanting so badly to draw in a breath and yet it can’t. Staring at Mr. Herze, this is how her body struggles yet again. Slowly, she shakes her head.

Mr. Herze will go into the kitchen now and mix his own drink while he waits for the television set to warm up. This used to happen more often. When Malina was younger, she was careless and would lie without thinking. Maybe she would forget to cook the spareribs in the refrigerator and when they spoiled she would throw them out and lie about the smell coming from the garbage can. With age, she learned to be more careful, to not give herself reason to lie. Pride. That’s what made her lie about the driving and the hammer. No woman wants the others to see her driveway standing empty long after her husband should be home.

“This will not end well,” Mr. Herze says. He also looks up and down Alder Avenue as if he, too, is concerned about the neighbors, then walks inside and slams the door.

Day 8

A
ll of the ladies were out and about this morning after spending a quiet day yesterday to reflect on the loss of Elizabeth and the state of their own neighborhood. Because most of them traveled to Willingham for their regular shopping trip, news will have spread and everyone will know about Grace and Orin and the colored men. They will have watched Grace and the men from behind the cover of heavy drapes, but they won’t have heard enough. They’ll want to know more but won’t dare ask. Malina is one to ask. No longer able to ignore Malina’s shouts, Grace finally stops on the sidewalk.

“I’m running late,” Grace says, tugging at her white gloves as she walks toward Malina. Julia’s house is directly across the street. Another morning has passed with no phone call or bus ride. Maybe on her way home, Grace will be able to stop in for a visit. She’ll feel better after spending some time on Willingham, stronger again. Mrs. Nowack and the women will help her make pierogi and they won’t ask about the colored men or wonder what terrible things Grace has done. They’ll mix up dough, roll it, boil it, and send Grace home with a box full of pierogi. It’ll be easier to breathe as soon as she gets to Willingham, and when she returns, she’ll stop to see Julia. “I’m afraid I haven’t time to visit.”

“I didn’t realize how much mending there was to do with those clothes I took from your garage,” Malina says.

Inside her own garage, Malina is bent over one of the several boxes and bags that cover the floor. Old clothes, sheets, and towels spill out of each one. She lifts a delicate yellow blouse, holds it up by the shoulders, shakes it, and folds it over her arm.

“I’m afraid I didn’t realize either.” Grace checks her watch. The bus will be along shortly. She resists glancing back at Julia’s house. James said Grace should pop in for a visit because Julia was having a tough time of it. The bus will be along shortly and Grace can’t miss it. She’ll have to visit Julia later. “If you’ll point out which bag,” she says. “I’ll get right to it.”

Malina scans the garage floor. Beyond her, Warren Herze’s tools hang from a pegboard. More and more of the neighborhood men have taken up the same idea, all of them so worried about their tools. Folks can’t be trusted anymore, some of them say. Not like it used to be. Got to keep track as best we can. All the tools fit perfectly, as if they are part of a child’s puzzle. The hammer is the one missing piece.

“There,” Malina says. “Right near your feet. That whole bag needs to be mended. I hate to ask it of you. Perhaps one of the other ladies can help.”

“I’ll get busy on them today.”

There is a pause while Malina digs into another bag and Grace braces for the questions. What ever were you doing talking with a Negro, and why would you have Orin shoot the man? What is it that you know, Grace Richardson, that the rest of us don’t? With Elizabeth lying in a box, won’t you tell us what you know?

“You’re a dear,” Malina says, and continues her sorting and folding.

The pause ends. No questions. Not even a mention of Elizabeth or her funeral or what could be done for poor Mr. Symanski.

“I’ll get some help with these,” Grace says, groaning as she bends to lift the brown bag.

“Thank you ever so much,” Malina says, staring at the pegboard. “Feel free to drop them at the thrift store when you’re finished.”

•   •   •

Julia should get up. Every other morning, she’s out of bed by six thirty. Breakfast for Bill, dishes, and then breakfast for the twins. They usually want pancakes. But Bill is gone, and the girls, even if they are awake, make no noise. They don’t need her yet, but before the day is over, they will. Soon enough, if not already, everyone will know Bill is gone. It’s as if Maryanne has died a second time. As if Julia knowing the truth brought back her baby and killed her again. As if Julia knowing is as bad as what Bill did. The pain of it sits on her chest, pressing down so she struggles for every breath. Her legs are heavy. Her arms ache.

She must have dozed off, because when she wakes again, the room is hot. Swinging both legs off the edge of the bed, she rests her feet on the floor and pushes herself into a sitting position. At first she welcomes the stillness. Near the door, her packed suitcase waits for her. She had planned to leave the girls with Bill, but that was before. Now that he is gone, they can come with her. They’ll make a vacation of it. The girls need some time away. All this acting out can be cured with a little extra time spent together. They’ll ride on the train, stay in a nice hotel, eat supper at a fine restaurant. The nurses and doctors at the Willows will see how good Julia is to the girls, how much they love one another, and they’ll give her a baby even though she has no husband. Even though Elizabeth Symanski will never come home. Even though Julia’s own baby died.

In the kitchen, Julia scrambles eggs instead of frying pancakes, but then she notices the time. It’s past noon, too late really for breakfast. She listens for the girls in their room overhead. She waits for footsteps pounding down the hallway or the sound of one of them bouncing off her mattress, the springs creaking under her weight. Nothing. She leans over the sink so she can see into the backyard. During this time of day, they like to sit in the shade thrown by Bill’s shed. Using white sticks of chalk, they draw on the concrete slab there. Sometimes tic-tac-toe boxes, other times line figures. The slab is empty and the latest drawings have been worn away to a few white slashes. At the bottom of the stairs, she shouts overhead, “Izzy, Arie, come on down.”

She waits but hears nothing.

The girls need to bathe so their hair will have time to dry before they leave for the station. There must be several trains to choose from. The newspaper article said every line in the country leads straight into the heart of Kansas City. They probably leave at all hours. She slides the eggs to a cool burner, sits, and flips through the phonebook, not entirely certain what she is searching for.

It’s nearly one o’clock when she thinks of the girls again. Most of the year, she is alone in the house while Bill is off to work. She is accustomed to the quiet, to the creak of the fan, the hum of the refrigerator when it clicks on. She forgets sometimes that it should be otherwise when the girls are visiting. She looks out the back window again and then out the front door. So she can get a better view, she walks to the end of the driveway, the bright sunlight making her squint. She calls for the girls up and down the street. No sign of them. Back inside, she climbs the stairs and opens their bedroom door.

The walls are white because the girls couldn’t agree on a color two years ago when Bill painted it. And when Julia bought each a new bedspread for her bed, they still couldn’t agree. It was blue popcorn chenille for Izzy and yellow for Arie. Arie makes her bed every morning without being asked. She tucks her hospital corners, straightens her bedspread, and fluffs her pillow. Izzy is careless with her bed, leaving the wrinkled sheets and the bedspread to hang unevenly. Julia can’t bear to see one half of the room tidy and the other disheveled, so she always fixes Izzy’s bed. Arie should complain, has a right to, but she never does. Some days, Arie tries to do the work for her sister, but Julia won’t allow it. Izzy might break the rules. Arie never does.

This morning, this afternoon, like always, Arie’s yellow bedspread lies smoothly across her bed and her pillow is centered on the headboard. Izzy’s should be untidy. Her spread should be crumpled, her pillow flat where she slept on it. But Izzy’s bed is as well made as Arie’s. It looks like it did yesterday after Julia fixed it. She had scolded the girls for stealing from Mr. Symanski. She had told them their promises meant nothing. Izzy’s bed looks as if it hasn’t been slept in and the rosary that usually hangs from Arie’s headboard is gone.

Stumbling backward, Julia grabs for the doorknob to steady herself. They were here last night. After Julia made a mess of the kitchen. After James came. No, that was Wednesday. They were home Wednesday. And then Thursday. Bill and she argued that morning. She told him to keep his voice down. The girls were sleeping. Bill trapped Julia against the wall and she ordered him to go. And then the stolen tuna and the hammer and Elizabeth’s belt. That was last night. Did she fix them supper? Surely she fed them. But what did she prepare? And didn’t she see them to bed before falling asleep herself?

She runs down the stairs and into the kitchen. Food overflows the trash can. The sour smell spills out into the living room and the foyer. There are only a few dirty dishes in the sink and dried-out strips of crust peeled from bread and slivers of SPAM—the girls’ favorite. Sandwiches they made for themselves.

Back in the foyer, Julia fumbles through her address book until she finds the number, dials, and waits. She had not asked where Bill was going when he left, but he had no choice other than his brother’s house. Catherine answers. No, Bill isn’t here. No, she doesn’t know where he is, at work most likely, and yes, she’ll pass on the message when she hears from him. Call back as soon as there’s news. Julia hangs up the phone. The house is empty. Like Elizabeth Symanski, the twins are gone.

•   •   •

Malina stands in her garage, surrounded by the donations she has gathered from the ladies. She really should have done a better job sorting and delivering them as they arrived on her doorstep. Across the street, Julia Wagner walks out of her house, and from the end of her driveway, she shouts for those twins. She must be calling them home to lunch. Malina tosses aside the gentleman’s shirt she had been folding and steps out of the garage into the sunlight.

Julia disappears inside and the street is quiet for a short while. She reappears, this time stumbling out the front door and down the drive. Her red hair hangs in her face and she wears a white cotton gown—her nightclothes. She begins to shout at the girls to come home. Over and over, she calls for them, her words stretching out to make room for her accent. Most days, Julia stands on her front porch and shouts at those girls as if calling home a dog. But something is different about her voice today. It’s strained, like she is nearly out of breath, and it’s pitched a bit higher, each word a bit rounder. That’s a scream. Yes, a person would call that a scream. Watching until Julia has disappeared back into her house, Malina runs inside, grabs her driving gloves and the car keys, and throws open the front door.

Slowing the car as she reaches the intersection of Woodward and Willingham, Malina turns right and parks in front of Wilson’s Cleaners. The street is empty because it’s past lunchtime. All of the ladies have come and gone. In a few weeks, at this very hour on a Saturday afternoon, the street will fill with folding tables and chairs. People from all over the city will come to buy homemade baked goods. They will have only Malina to thank for it. How many hours has she spent planning where each table will sit, following up to make certain every lady has done her baking, even brewing and serving the fresh coffee herself?

Once past Wilson’s Cleaners, Malina crosses Willingham and walks toward the factory. The men are back to work and the lot is full, but from the far side of the street, she’ll be able to see through all the cars, and among them, she’ll find Mr. Herze’s. It will be there. She’s certain of it. After those twins left the house yesterday, Malina had gathered up the clothing scattered across her lawn and followed Mr. Herze into the house. She promised him she had seen nothing, done nothing. He pushed her away, pulled on his hat, and left without another word. All night, he was gone, never came home to breakfast, and even when Malina left the house at well past noon, he had not yet come home. Surely he’s not the reason Julia stood at the end of her driveway, screaming and wearing her nightclothes.

Malina hasn’t been to Nowack’s Bakery in several days. None of the ladies are shopping there anymore because she won’t close on payday. It’s odd, then, that the door stands open and the strong smell of sautéed onions seeps outside. With no customers, who would Mrs. Nowack be baking for? The fans are running, too. Another sign that Mrs. Nowack is baking. Malina intended to walk past without even glancing at the shop. She intended to slip around the corner and from there, watch the parking lot. She certainly never intended to go inside the bakery, but that carriage stood in the center of the store, where a person walking past couldn’t help but see it.

She walks up the stairs that lead to the door and crosses inside. A small bell chimes. Straight ahead, the carriage’s black canopy is raised, and a yellow quilt lies across the bassinet. The canopy’s frame is twisted and the handle rusted. She moves closer, first sliding one foot across a white square tile and then another across a black tile.

“You are coming to buy bread?” Mrs. Nowack says, walking out from the back room. Her gray skirt is dusted with flour and her cheeks are red and shiny.

“I’m doing no such thing.”

Malina inches closer to the carriage.

Mrs. Nowack pushes aside the black curtain that leads to the back of the store. “Cassia,” she calls. “You are to be coming here to fetch this baby.”

A girl—
the
girl—walks out from behind the curtain. Her black hands are coated with flour up to her wrists and she wears a small white apron around her waist. She stops when she sees Malina.

“It’s too hot out back,” the girl says, staring at Malina. “You said my baby shouldn’t be back there.”

“You are to be taking her,” Mrs. Nowack says. “And you, if you are not buying, you are leaving.”

Malina takes another step toward the carriage, the narrow heel of her shoe tapping the floor. “I’ll do no such thing,” she says.

The girl is smaller even than she appeared the other night walking down a dark street. She rests her tiny hands on the carriage’s handle and pulls it toward her. Her face is like a doll’s; her shoulders and hips, slight. There must be an odor to her, like the one Malina washes from Mr. Herze’s shirts, but Malina can’t smell it over the onions and butter. With the carriage in hand, the girl backs toward the curtain, her feet so small and light they move silently. This girl wasn’t supposed to be the mother. The other woman—the larger one with rounded, full hips and thick legs—she was supposed to be the mother. But here is this girl, Mr. Herze’s girl, pulling on a carriage that carries Mr. Herze’s baby.