Until She Comes Home (21 page)

“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.

J
ulia 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.