Until She Comes Home (4 page)

“What’d you find?” Orin shouts, waving one fist in the air.

The men hold up their hands. Nothing. Most of the apartment windows are dark. The doors remain closed. No one from the Filmore comes out.

“You’ve got to go on in there.” It’s Orin again. “Nothing’s going to stop you.”

And then the police arrive, two black-and-white cars, two officers in each. They tell the men to stay clear of the Filmore.

“No one is allowed in there,” an officer says.

Leaving the group of six to linger on the curb, Orin Schofield still shouting and wielding his plank of wood, James escorts the officers into Mr. Symanski’s house. They sit around the kitchen table, and it takes him and Grace some time to explain about Elizabeth.

“No, she’s not a child,” Grace says. “A woman. Twenty-one years old. No, twenty-two today. But she’s like a child. She’s lost all the same. I saw her last. She left my house. Walked home. It’s such a short trip. That’s the last I know.”

The police insist Mr. Symanski stay at the house and not join the other men. James agrees.

“She’ll need a friendly face when we bring her home,” James says.

“Yes,” Grace says, resting a hand on Mr. Symanski’s shoulder. “James will see to it. He’ll see Elizabeth home.”

But really James must worry about Mr. Symanski’s heart. He won’t let Grace join the search either.

“See to him,” James says, nodding at Mr. Symanski. “Put on some coffee. Answer the phone. And keep yourself in the house.”

So while James goes outside to show the officers his map, Grace hunts for the coffee. She dumps the old grounds in a can she finds under the sink, rinses and fills the pot, brews a fresh batch. In the refrigerator, she finds a loaf of bread, cheese, and the sliced roast beef she delivered this past Wednesday. Like Orin Schofield, Mr. Symanski always gets the same dish. Spreading extra butter on the sandwich, she cuts it in half and slides it toward him.

“How long since you last ate?” she asks.

Mr. Symanski looks at the small white refrigerator as if it might give him the answer. “I am not knowing,” he says, then picks up one half of the sandwich but doesn’t take a bite.

Not worried that coffee will keep Mr. Symanski awake tonight, Grace pours him a cup. No one will sleep until Elizabeth is home. She adds cream and two sugars because that’s the way James takes it, and presses one of Mr. Symanski’s hands between both of hers. Perhaps Mr. Symanski would prefer bourbon, but James said coffee.

“Please,” she says. “You really should eat.”

As more people arrive to help in the search, Grace points them toward the police cars parked outside the house. One officer stands there, talking into a small radio. Grace calls after each neighbor, reminding him to check behind the bushes and in every garage because that’s what James said to do, and she jots down the name of every person who joins the search.

The neighbors continue to look well past dark. They carry flashlights and kerosene lanterns. Children from nearby streets swat at mosquitoes, and the ladies run home to flip on porch lights and kitchen lights, everything to light up the street for Elizabeth. Teenagers shuffle up and down Alder, the bright orange tips of their cigarettes glowing in the dark. In the kitchen, Grace scrubs the counter with baking soda while Mr. Symanski and two officers talk across the table. One officer has dark hair that curls on the ends, one strand cupping the top of his left ear. His name is Officer Warinski. The other officer, whose name is Thompson, has straight brown hair that was probably once blond, and he slouches as if he has always been the tallest. Both wear heavy, dark shoes that will leave scuff marks.

The curly-haired officer, Officer Warinski, points at Grace and then at the table. After Grace has taken a seat, the officer asks if Elizabeth would have had a plan and if anything is missing from the house that the girl might have sold for money. Hunched over the table, propped up by his elbows, his face resting in his hands, Mr. Symanski shakes his head.

“Elizabeth doesn’t know how to use money,” Grace says. “She doesn’t know what it is.”

Together, the officers, Grace, and Mr. Symanski walk to Elizabeth’s room. Again, the curly-haired Warinski does the talking. He asks if anything is missing. Officer Thompson holds a yellow pencil and a small pad of lined paper. Officer Warinski wonders aloud if Elizabeth had been planning a trip and asks Grace and Mr. Symanski for the names and telephone numbers of Elizabeth’s friends.

“She hasn’t any,” Grace says. “Only me. Me and a few of the other neighbor ladies. She’s like a child, frail, not well. You must understand that.”

Back in the kitchen, the taller officer bobs his head in the direction of the coffeepot, signaling he would like a cup. Both officers and Mr. Symanski return to their seats at the table. Officer Warinski brushes aside the curl that again grabs on to the top of his ear. He stretches his hands into the air, cups his head, and tilts his chair, balancing on the two hind legs. His skin is smooth like a boy’s.

“One more time,” he says to Grace. “You last saw her when?”

Placing an empty cup in front of each officer and pouring until both are full, Grace glances at Mr. Symanski. He stares down into his own empty cup, his hands wrapped around it as if warming himself. Grace pushes the sugar bowl and creamer across the table toward the officers.

“She comes every day for lunch,” Grace says. “Like always, she came. It gives Mr. Symanski time to catch up on chores or to nap. I rang him when she arrived and later sent her away because of all the talk.”

“The talk?”

“Talk of the woman found dead on Willingham Avenue. Most of our husbands, they work down there. Elizabeth left me at about one thirty. I rang Mr. Symanski again. One ring on the telephone to let him know she was on her way.”

Across the table, Mr. Symanski’s silver hair has fallen across his forehead and into his eyes.

“But I got busy,” Grace says. “I think he never rang back. I’m supposed to listen for him to ring back so I know she made it home.”

The curly-haired Warinski asks twice about the telephone rings that Grace and Mr. Symanski exchange. Grace explains that in the year since Ewa died, Grace and Mr. Symanski have taken to trading rings to signal Elizabeth’s safe arrival. She wanders too far sometimes, twice walking past Grace’s house, going as far as Woodward before she was spotted. The officer squints at Grace. He doesn’t understand.

“Elizabeth wanders. Those rings, it’s how we know she’s safe. We ring when she leaves or when she arrives. The other rings back to signal she made it safe and sound.”

“And did you ring Mrs. Richardson?” the officer asks Mr. Symanski. Before Mr. Symanski can answer, the officer says to Grace, “Did he ring to signal that the girl was on her way for lunch? Did he ring that she made it home? Did he ever ring?”

Grace shakes her head. She’s certain she phoned Mr. Symanski after Julia and Elizabeth left the house. She must be certain. She let it ring once just as she always does, but did he ring her back? Did he ever ring her at all? Did he know Elizabeth had come? Did he know she left his house?

“I don’t know,” Grace finally says, rubbing one palm to the bridge of her nose. “I don’t remember. But I rang when she arrived and when she left. I know I did. I’m certain of it.”

The taller officer slouches even when seated. He reaches across the table and taps his pencil in front of Mr. Symanski. “Sir?”

“I can’t remember things,” Mr. Symanski says. “It is being so shameful I can’t remember. I was sleeping. Sometimes I am sleeping too long.”

“So,” Officer Warinski says. He leans forward, the chair’s front legs hitting the linoleum with a thud. “Elizabeth made her own way home when she left your house?”

Grace starts to say yes but stops. She mirrors the officer’s movement, slides forward on her chair and presses her hands flat on the tabletop.

“No,” she says. “No, she didn’t. I asked Julia Wagner to see Elizabeth home. She didn’t stay for lunch. The twins, Julia’s nieces, are here. She had to get home to them. Julia saw Elizabeth last.”

Officer Thompson stands and says he will go speak to Mrs. Wagner. Grace is relieved, happy that this thing she has remembered will amount to something good. Julia will be able to tell them what happened. She’ll be able to help.

When the officers have left the house, Grace helps Mr. Symanski into the living room. He sits in Ewa’s chair. Grace sits on the tweed sofa, where she is close enough to reach out and pat his knee.

“Today is being Elizabeth’s birthday, you know,” Mr. Symanski says.

Grace nods to make him think she remembered even though she hadn’t. She hadn’t remembered because she’d been thinking about pierogi and those women on Willingham and how best to distract Julia from memories of her daughter. The lavender dress should have reminded Grace sooner. Mr. Symanski sinks into the chair that is too large for him and rests his cheek on one of the cushions as if it were Ewa’s shoulder.

“I’m sure she’ll be home soon,” Grace says, placing a hand on Mr. Symanski’s knee. It’s like a small wooden knob under her fingers. “You know James. He’ll take care of this.”

James always knows what to do, how to fix things, how to make things right. When the car sputters, he knows which tool to use and what needs to be tightened or replaced. When the water heater stops warming, he tinkers until it works. When the television shows only static, he knows just how to turn the antennae. When, after five years, Grace still wasn’t pregnant, he insisted no wife of his would have such worries. He scolded her when she cried over it, promised to stay no matter how many years passed, and eventually he put an end to that problem too and gave Grace a baby.

“He’ll have Elizabeth home in no time,” Grace says. “I have brownies for her. And I know how she loves the ice cream. She’ll be home before you know it.”

Mr. Symanski takes a sip from his coffee. “I’m feeling she won’t,” he says, staring at a blank wall. “I’m feeling very badly she won’t ever come home.”

I
t’s well past bedtime for Izzy and Arie, short for Isabelle and Arabelle, when they tiptoe down Aunt Julia’s stairs. Both of them wear nightgowns yellowed at the seams where Grandma used too much bleach. They stare straight ahead as they pass through the entry so they won’t be tempted to glance at the telephone. Mrs. Witherspoon, Grandma’s neighbor, promised to call if their cat turned up. Patches is her name. She ran away from Grandma’s house two weeks ago. Grandma said it’s what cats do when the weather turns warm and not to worry. Now that Elizabeth Symanski is missing, the girls shouldn’t be concerning themselves with a cat, but they didn’t know Elizabeth all that well, and they’d had Patches for almost a year. One thing’s for sure, though. Staring at a phone won’t make it ring. Once in the living room, where Aunt Julia says they can all wait together until Elizabeth comes home, the girls sit. Their bare calves hang over the side of the loveseat, and their feet dangle, nearly touching the floor, but not quite. Next year, they’ll reach.

Every summer since before they can remember, the girls have looked forward to visiting Aunt Julia and Uncle Bill. Back home, where the twins live the rest of the year with Grandma, they are almost never allowed out of the yard, especially when the weather warms up. It’s the polio, Grandma always says. No sense tempting fate. Now, here they are, cooped up just like at Grandma’s. Every other summer, Friday night at Aunt Julia’s meant an evening at Sanders. That’s the real reason the girls packed their store-bought dresses. They would sit, the girls, Uncle Bill, and Aunt Julia, at the Sanders counter, and as Uncle Bill ordered from the man wearing an apron and small white hat, Aunt Julia would scold the girls for twirling on the round stools. Then they’d all eat hot-fudge sundaes from fluted glass dishes.

Outside Aunt Julia’s front window, streams of yellow thrown from flashlights drift back and forth across the lawn. Dry grass crackles under heavy boots, and as broad-shouldered shadows glide past the windows, voices call out to Elizabeth. Mostly men’s voices, deep and scratchy. Some are close, next door or down the street. Others are muffled, as if coming from a block or two away. The quieter voices are harder to listen to. They mean the men have traveled farther and farther away, thinking Elizabeth has done the same. The quieter voices come from someplace dark, where all the porch lights aren’t shining and the front doors don’t stand wide open. The quieter voices mean maybe Elizabeth won’t be found as quickly as Aunt Julia thought. The twins, and Aunt Julia, too, are waiting for silence, because silence will mean the men, whether near or far, have stopped shouting and Elizabeth has been found. Silence will be a good thing.

“What will Elizabeth do?” Izzy says, turning her back on the telephone so she won’t be tempted to think about Patches or warm, bittersweet chocolate. Her stomach clenches and reminds her they skipped supper. Another great thing about Aunt Julia’s house is the food. She cooks as well as Grandma, maybe better, and never insists on clean plates and always makes enough for seconds. Food isn’t such a chore at Aunt Julia’s house. “When it’s time for bed,” Izzy says, “what will she do?”

Izzy’s damp red hair hangs in strands over her shoulders, the ends frayed where she didn’t bother to comb through them after her bath. Grandma is always shouting—Izzy, get busy. Izzy, get busy brushing your hair. Izzy, get busy making your bed. Izzy, get busy. Arie’s hair is nearly dry because she is better about scrubbing it with a towel. No one ever shouts at Arie to get busy.

“What do you mean, sugar?” Aunt Julia says.

“What will Elizabeth do without a bed to sleep in?” Arie says before Izzy can answer for herself.

Izzy stares hard at Arie and shakes her head. Grandma doesn’t like it when they do things like finish each other’s sentences and thoughts. She says it feels like something the good Lord didn’t intend. Scooting to the edge of the sofa so she doesn’t have to look Izzy in the eye, Arie begins rubbing the ends of her fingers, one after the other, no doubt wishing she held Grandma’s rosary in her hands so she could rub its smooth, ivory-colored beads instead of her own fingertips. But the rosary is upstairs, hanging from Arie’s headboard, where she has kept it since they arrived.

“I believe Elizabeth will sleep in her own bed tonight,” Aunt Julia says. She stands, tugging at her slim skirt where it buckles on her hips, and walks over to the front door. “I was with her just this afternoon at Mrs. Richardson’s. She’ll be happy as can be to see you two.” Pushing open the screen door, Aunt Julia leans out and looks up and down the street. “I bet she’d be pleased to help you find that cat of yours. Just as soon as she’s home, we’ll all go together. We’ll take out the sedan, drive over to Grandma’s, and have a look around.”

Outside, a few doors slam shut and, soon after, engines fire up, rumble, and fade as the cars roll down the street. The bushes along the west side of the house rustle. The men are kicking them or swatting at them with yardsticks. They must think Elizabeth is hiding there. Aunt Julia rubs her thin reddish eyebrows, inhales a deep breath, spins around on one heel, and returns to her seat at the larger sofa. Deep voices continue to call out to Elizabeth. “Come on home,” they shout. “Supper’s on the table.” Following Aunt Julia’s example, the girls rest their hands in their laps, cross their ankles, and sit with a straight back.

As the twins stare out the front window, Aunt Julia trying to smile each time they glance her way, they realize the neighborhood is quiet. The voices have stopped calling. The girls close their eyes and each takes a breath, together at the same time because that’s how it works between them. They don’t want to hear another man shout out that supper is waiting or that Papa is home and misses his Elizabeth. After a few more moments of silence, the twins open their eyes, look at each other and then at Aunt Julia. Arie squirms to the edge of the loveseat, stands, and leaps into the center of the room. She claps her hands together and draws them to her chest. Aunt Julia smiles, shows her teeth. She hears the silence too. All three turn when a heavy foot hits the front porch. Aunt Julia jumps from the sofa.

Uncle Bill’s head is the first thing to poke through the open screen door. He’s wearing his black Tigers cap, the same one he pulls on every night as soon as he gets home from work. His hair is almost as dark as that hat. He crosses into the house, his black steel-toed work boots clumping on the wooden floor, and as he passes Arie, still standing in the center of the room, he scoops her up with one arm, cradles her to his side, and together they drop down on the large sofa opposite Izzy. Aunt Julia closes her eyes and exhales a long breath. Taking steps that make no noise at all, she follows Uncle Bill and sits next to him. Uncle Bill wraps his other arm around Aunt Julia, settling back into the sofa’s deep, square cushions, dragging her with him. She laughs and slaps at his chest, but not slaps that would hurt. Then she leans into him, lets her head rest on his shoulder, and seems to forget for a moment that the twins are in the room.

“I’m so relieved,” Aunt Julia says, sinking into Uncle Bill’s side.

Grandma says the girls are the spitting image of their mother, but Izzy and Arie don’t know their mother. Grandma says take a gander at your aunt Julia. That’s close enough. Izzy resists a peek at her own flat chest. There is no chance Aunt Julia ever looked like Izzy and Arie and no chance Izzy and Arie will ever grow to look like Aunt Julia.

Stretching an arm around Uncle Bill’s waist, Aunt Julia hooks a finger through one of his belt loops. “Where was she?”

Uncle Bill kisses the top of Arie’s head and winks at Izzy across the room. It’s not too late, yet. Maybe there will still be time for a drive downtown and chocolate sundaes. When Uncle Bill doesn’t answer, Aunt Julia unhooks her finger, slides to the edge of the sofa, and shifts in her seat so she can face him square-on.

“You found her, didn’t you?” Aunt Julia’s voice becomes thick and slow. Her Southern roots have a way of breaking ground whenever she gets especially worked up. “That’s why you’re home, right? You found Elizabeth.”

Arie pokes Uncle Bill and points at the cap he still wears even though he’s inside. Uncle Bill gives her the same wink he gave Izzy and snaps the bill of his cap between two fingers. It flips off his head, spins end over end, and lands in his lap.

“Not yet,” he says, pinching the tip of Arie’s chin.

“What do you mean, not yet?” Aunt Julia stands and stares down on Uncle Bill. “It’s pitch-black out there. She has to be home.”

Uncle Bill pats the cushion next to him, and when Aunt Julia sits again, he pats her knee. “We’ve stirred up a hornets’ nest, girls,” he says, rubbing his rough face against Arie’s cheek. He’s done that to Izzy before so she knows why Arie tucks her chin and giggles. Izzy touches a hand to her own cheek because she can almost feel it too. “You’re going to have to stay close to home for a while.”

“Grandma says hornets will leave us well enough alone if we leave them well enough alone,” Izzy says.

“Not that kind of hornets, kiddo.”

“What is it, Bill?” Aunt Julia says.

“A lot of angry words being tossed around down at the Filmore. Best the girls stay close to home until Elizabeth is found.”

The Filmore Apartments are the reason Grandma almost didn’t let Izzy and Arie come to Aunt Julia’s this year. Coloreds live there, and Grandma said it’s only a matter of time now. If people are throwing around angry words, that must mean they think the coloreds have been stirring up trouble and maybe they stirred up trouble for Elizabeth. Maybe she didn’t wander off like Aunt Julia thinks she did.

“What about our cat?” Izzy says. The words pop out before she can stop them. It’s easier to think about a lost cat than a lost person. “If we can’t leave the house, we can’t very well find her. Isn’t that right? You’re saying we can’t look for Patches.”

“It’ll only be for a short time,” Uncle Bill says. “You can put out food on the back porch. Milk, maybe. Cats like milk. Try to tempt her home.”

Izzy stands and takes a few steps toward Aunt Julia and Uncle Bill. “Couple days won’t hurt, I guess,” she says, but before she can finish, Uncle Bill wraps one long arm around her waist and scoops her up too.

“But no leaving the house without Aunt Julia’s permission,” he says, rubbing his day-old beard against Izzy’s cheek like he did Arie’s. “Understood?”

Like Arie, Izzy tucks her chin and laughs.

Together, the twins say, “Understood.”

“So you’ll go back now?” Aunt Julia says. “You’ll go and help the others.” She stands again and smooths her skirt. Every part of Aunt Julia is plentiful and round. She is forever reattaching buttons and stitching up stressed seams. “You should get going. The girls and I will be fine.”

Uncle Bill squeezes the twins close and talks over Izzy’s head. “There’s one more thing, Julia. It’s the police. There’s a fellow outside, an officer. He’d like to talk to you.”

“To me?”

Uncle Bill nods. “I’ll come with you. You girls are fine here for a few minutes, aren’t you?”

“No,” Aunt Julia says. She waves a hand at the three of them and smiles but doesn’t show her teeth this time. “I’m happy to talk with him. You all stay put.”

•   •   •

The man standing on Julia’s front porch wears a blue hat, a dark shirt, and a tie. A police officer’s uniform. He removes his hat, squints into the overhead light. “Ma’am.”

“I have children in here,” Julia says, meaning she doesn’t want the girls to hear what this man might say.

The officer backs away, a signal for Julia to join him. Once they have moved off the porch, the officer’s eyes drop to Julia’s chest and loiter. She pulls closed the lightweight cardigan she slipped on at sunset, crosses her arms, and scratches at a small grease stain on her sleeve.

Outside the house, the shadows that had floated past the living-room windows have transformed into real people stooping to search under parked cars, wading through bushes that grow between houses, crawling under porches. A few flashlights settle on Julia before sweeping on past. The shouts have started up again and the air no longer smells of sweet sulfur. Everyone has put away the fireworks for the night.

“There’s news?” Julia asks, wrapping her arms more tightly around her waist.

The officer introduces himself. Officer Thompson. Julia wants to run a finger up his back like she does to the girls when they forget their manners and slouch. The officer has been at the Symanski house. He asks if Julia knows the Symanski girl and she says of course. They are waiting, she and the twins, for news Elizabeth is safe. The girls are too young to be out and are afraid to be left alone, so they are waiting at home, together.

“And you saw her today?” Officer Thompson asks. His light brown hair is matted to his forehead where his hat rested. “You saw . . .” He flips through a small pad of paper. “Elizabeth Symanski?”

“Earlier in the day,” Julia says. “Around lunchtime. Much before any of this.”

“And what can you tell me of that meeting?”

The officer stares down at his pad and only looks up when Julia is too long in answering. “You recall having seen her?”

“You make it sound so formal. I walked her home, is all. It was one thirty or so. Lunchtime at Grace Richardson’s house. Much before any of this.”

“You saw her to her door?”

Julia squints into a set of headlights rolling past. “I suppose I should say I watched her walk home.”

“You watched?” the officer asks. “And what is it you saw?”

“From the sidewalk, I watched her. She reached her gate, the iron gate outside her house. And then her door. I saw her make her way inside.”

The officer motions for Julia to follow him. She glances back at her house before joining the officer at the end of the driveway. Once there, he places both hands on Julia’s shoulders and turns her to face the west end of the street. Then he moves behind her, leans forward until his chest bumps against the back of her head, stretches out his right arm and points down Alder Avenue.

“Like this?” he asks. “From the end of a drive like this you watched Elizabeth make her way home?”