Until She Comes Home (15 page)

“Yep,” Cassia says, lowering herself onto the bench. “Not so bad.” After another quick peek under the quilt, she settles into her seat and, with one hand, continues rocking the carriage.

“Why won’t you ladies come to the bakery anymore?” It’s Lucille, the one with the braids. Her eyes are dark brown, almost black.

“Pardon?” Grace glances overhead, thinking if it were to rain, she would have reason to excuse herself.

“You and the other ladies,” Sylvie says, smiling as if to make up for Lucille’s harsh tone. “Mrs. Nowack says you all won’t come anymore and she won’t have so much baking to do.”

“We’re frightened, I suppose,” Grace says.

“Because you all are afraid of being here when they pull that girl out of the river?” Lucille says. As she waits for an answer, she taps her fork on the edge of her plate. The muscles along her jawline pulse as if she’s grinding her teeth. “Will you all come back after they find her?”

“I don’t think I can answer that.”

“Maybe they’re afraid of ending up like Tyla,” Lucille says.

“Hush about that,” Sylvie says, wagging her finger in the same fashion Grace’s own mother did when Grace was a child. “No one said nothing about Tyla.” She nods in Cassia’s direction and presses a finger to her lips. “No one said nothing.”

“Don’t matter why they stopped coming,” Lucille says. “Still a pity for Mrs. Nowack.”

Across the table, Cassia nods along with Lucille and dips her fork into the baked pepper. At first she takes small bites, chewing each a good long time, but she must decide she likes it because she eats faster. Between bites, she grabs hold of the carriage’s handle, gives it a gentle shake, and makes that shhhing noise. The handle is speckled with rust and the black canopy is frayed at its edges. When Cassia seems content the baby is asleep, she settles into her seat, one hand in her lap, the other scooping out the last of the ground beef. Lucille and Sylvie begin to eat as well, and the table falls silent. As they eat, the women look at one another without turning their heads, but instead by flicking their eyes this way and that as if hoping Grace won’t notice. The silence continues to build, interrupted only by quiet chewing and the sound of forks tapping against the glossy, white plates.

“Is she yours?” Grace says to Cassia because she can think of nothing else to say and no other way to break the silence. “What’s her name?”

Cassia drops her fork. It bounces off the side of her plate and tumbles onto the table and then onto the ground. She grabs on to the carriage’s handle and yanks it toward her, the wheels letting off a high-pitched squeal.

“Uh-oh,” Lucille says. “Now you gone and done it.”

“Yeah, she’s my baby,” Cassia says, still rocking, the wheels squealing louder as she pushes and pulls the carriage. “Why? You think she shouldn’t be?”

“No, I thought she was . . .” Grace glances at Sylvie but doesn’t say her name. Cassia is so young. Her hips are narrow and her waist scarcely tapered, still like a girl’s. Sylvie has curves like a woman who has given birth to a baby. “I guess I only meant . . .”

“Something wrong with her being mine?” Cassia says. She rocks the carriage back and forth. The metal frame squeaks and whines. The tattered yellow blanket slips from the carriage’s handle and flutters toward the ground. As if the carriage’s handle has suddenly become too hot, Cassia jerks her hand away.

Struggling to stand, her large stomach slowing her, Grace reaches to catch the quilt before it falls. She snags one corner and raises it up so the end doesn’t drag in the mud. She starts to hand it back to Cassia, but she has lowered her head and is staring at the tabletop. The other two women are attending her, talking to her in quiet whispers and touching her lightly on the shoulder and back. Looking around for Mrs. Nowack but not finding her, Grace swings her legs off the end of the bench and stands. She shakes out the quilt like a sheet, snaps it, and lets it flutter down over the carriage, but before it has settled, she jerks it back. The bassinet is empty. It’s tattered and in places the fabric is worn away entirely, exposing the metal frame beneath. She looks from the empty stroller to Cassia to the other women at the table. A hand presses down on her shoulder. It’s Lucille. She yanks the quilt from Grace and forces her back into her seat.

Slipping around the end of the table, Lucille snaps the quilt just as Grace had done, and lets it float down over the carriage. “Well,” she says to Grace once the quilt is in place. “Something wrong with that baby? Something wrong with Cassia being that baby’s mama?”

Sylvie fixes her elbows on the table, but instead of Grace, she looks at the woman with the braids. “Don’t you be getting on this girl like that.”

“I’ll be getting on who I damn well want.” Lucille flips her braids over her shoulders, crosses her arms, and presses her chest up and out as if trying to make herself as large as Sylvie.

Sylvie stands. “Girl didn’t do nothing to you.”

“She asking about Cassia’s baby,” Lucille says, moving behind Grace so Grace can hear her but cannot see her. “That’s something.”

“She sure is my baby,” Cassia says.

“Yes, of course.” Grace clutches her bag to her chest and edges away from the sound of Lucille’s voice. “She’s lovely, I’m sure.”

“See there, Cassia,” Sylvie says, motioning for Lucille to sit. When Lucille doesn’t move, Sylvie jabs her finger at her and then at the bench, again reminding Grace of her own mother, albeit a taller, rounder, broader version. “Your baby girl is lovely. No need to get upset.”

Lucille lowers herself onto the bench, choosing to sit as far away from Grace as possible, and begins to eat. Across the table, Sylvie does the same. Cassia watches the two of them for a few moments and then picks up her fork from the ground and wipes it on her napkin, all the while keeping a firm grip on the carriage’s rusted handle. Sylvie waves her fork at Grace, a signal she should start eating too. Instead, Grace stands, drops her napkin in her plate, and to no one in particular, she says, “Thank you for having me to lunch.”

“You’ll come tomorrow,” Sylvie says. A light drizzle has started up again. The tiny drops sparkle on her dark skin. “Got to stay later if you want to make pierogi. We always roll it out after lunch. ’Course, you know we cook up all that pierogi.” She winks at Grace with her warm brown eyes. “We help you, will you bring those ladies back for Mrs. Nowack? Bring them back so she’ll have customers.”

“I’ll do my best,” Grace says. “I’ll do what I can.”

Sylvie waves her fingers in the air. “You want us teaching you. Not Mrs. Nowack. She got arthritis real bad. You don’t want Mrs. Nowack making your noodles. That’s for damn sure.”

G
race only meant to rest her eyes for a few minutes after her trip to the bakery, but she slept several hours because here it is, suppertime. She walks down the stairs toward muted voices coming from the front room. The oven clicks and the soothing smell of one of the chicken casseroles Mother left in the freezer before going home fills the house. James must have come home while Grace slept and popped it in the oven. He would have woken her if there were news. Instead, the doorbell woke her. Friends and neighbors use the side door off the kitchen. They tap lightly on the glass or on the doorframe. The doorbell means company.

Pausing at the bottom of the stairs, Grace leans out to see who has come to visit. A draft blows across the living room and stirs her hair and the hem of her dress. James stands at the front door with his back to her. He leans against the jamb, one foot resting on the opposite ankle. He turns when a floorboard creaks under Grace’s feet.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he says. Only the middle two buttons on his shirt are buttoned and he didn’t bother to comb his hair after having washed it. It curls on the ends when he brushes it with his fingers and not a proper brush. Now that his days are spent searching, he comes home every night to have supper with Grace. He always freshens up, usually after they eat. He slaps cool water on his face, washes his hands and forearms with a good dose of soap—all meant to give him a second wind before rejoining the search.

A man wearing a dark blue shirt stands in the doorway. He tips his hat at her. A second man, dressed in the same blue shirt and wearing the same blue hat, stands next to him.

“Mrs. Richardson?” the first man says.

He’s a police officer, the same one who sat at Mr. Symanski’s kitchen table after Elizabeth first disappeared. He had rubbed his temples that night, not quite certain he understood how a grown woman was really no more than a child. He is the same age as Grace, but even late in the day when he should have a shadow on his lower jaw and chin, his face is smooth. His dark hair flips up in tight curls.

“She can’t tell you any more than I have,” James says. He rubs the bridge of his nose between two fingers.

“Do you mind?” The other officer, taller with light brown hair, leans into the house so he can speak directly to Grace.

“James, you should invite them in,” Grace says, not moving from her spot at the bottom of the stairs.

The men have shifted about in the threshold and have blocked the breeze. The oven still clicks, throwing off heat.

“May we?” the taller officer says to James.

James steps aside, allowing the officers to pass, and waves at Grace to join them. The officers remove their hats and tuck them under an arm.

“I remember you,” Grace says to the officer with the smooth face and dark curls. His hair is dented where he wore his hat. “Please have a seat. May I get you something to drink?”

“No, ma’am,” he says. “I’m Officer Warinski.” He nudges the gentleman standing at his side. “Officer Thompson.”

“Do you have word of Elizabeth?” Grace says.

“They wonder if something has happened here, Grace,” James says, gesturing for her to take a seat.

She sits on the edge of the skirted sofa, gathers her crochet work from the coffee table, and spreads it across her lap. The tweed sofa, even through the fabric of her cotton skirt, is rough against the backs of her legs.

“Wonder if what has happened?”

“We’ve questioned a man,” the taller officer says, “in connection with a crime in the area.”

Grace clears her throat, smiles for the two officers, and scoots back, settling into the cushions. When she started crocheting the baby’s blanket two months ago, she chose a bulky white yarn suitable for a boy or girl. Placing her fingers to the hook’s flat grip, she pokes the head through the bottom loop. As she begins her first stitch, James walks around the back of the sofa and rests his hands on her shoulders. She grabs his fingers and kisses the back of one wrist.

“Is it to do with Elizabeth?” she asks. Yarn over, draw through, yarn over, release.

“This man,” Officer Warinski says, ignoring Grace’s question, “has given us information about a crime at this location.”

The door is closed behind the two men and the breeze is gone. The house is dark because Grace never drew open the drapes. She begins another single crochet. That was her twelfth stitch. She must remember to count. So often she forgets and has to pull out her work and start again.

“A crime?” she says. The tightness begins in her stomach and rises into her throat. Again, “A crime?” She hears her own voice as if it’s someone else’s.

“I told them they were mistaken,” James says, kneading her shoulders with his fingers. “No mischief around here.”

“None,” Grace says, she thinks she says. She loses her stitch. “No mischief around here.”

Both officers stare at her, only at her.

“Could we speak in private, ma’am?” Officer Warinski says.

“Our supper is growing cold.” Grace’s neck is damp under James’s hands. “I haven’t anything to add.”

“Wrong house, I suppose,” James says, and pulls his hands from Grace’s shoulders. “Though I can’t say I’ve heard of any trouble for the neighbors, either.” He walks past the men and opens the door. “Other than the Symanskis.”

He doesn’t tell them about Orin Schofield firing his rifle or the fire in the garbage can or the broken windows more and more neighbors are waking up to. Protecting the street, Grace supposes. Like parents protect a child. Since Elizabeth disappeared, all the neighbors are beginning to do the same. No one wants to admit what is becoming, what has become, of Alder Avenue.

Officer Thompson steps outside. The officer with the curls, Officer Warinski, makes no move to leave and continues to study Grace. He is young, too young really.

“This man, he says a woman was hurt here,” the young officer says. “At this address. Quite badly, we believe.”

Grace lifts her chin. Her face must be red, but she could blame it on the heat. She touches her top lip with the end of her tongue. The sore spot has nearly healed over.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “If someone was hurt, I’m terribly sorry. Please tell her. If you find her. Tell her I’m so very sorry.”

Waiting for the second officer to leave, James holds open the door. Fresh air rushes through the house again, chilling the damp spots James left on Grace’s neck and shoulders.

“If you think of anything,” Officer Warinski says. Again, his eyes are only on Grace. “Any information would be helpful.” He dips his head, watches her. “It might be our only chance.”

“To find Elizabeth?” James says. “Is that what you mean? Did this man take her? Is that what happened?”

“I’m afraid we can’t discuss the particulars,” Officer Thompson says from the front porch.

“Can’t,” James says, “or won’t? This is our neighborhood. We’ve a right to know.”

Officer Thompson shakes his head but offers nothing more. The other officer continues to stare at Grace, waiting and watching for a clue that she has lied to them.

“Mind if we have a look out back?” the curly-haired Warinski says. “Give your garage a once-over.”

James leans against the doorjamb, crosses one foot over the other again. “Don’t see the need,” he says. “It’ll only get the neighbors to talking, and I don’t see the sense in that.”

“Ma’am,” Officer Warinski says. “Do you see the need?”

Grace shakes her head and runs her fingers across the many rows she has crocheted over the last few months. Mother says the stitches are too tight, too simple.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t,” she says. “It would be a waste of your valuable time.”

James dips his head as if he were wearing a hat. “Gentlemen,” he says, signaling the men should leave. “We’ll let you know if we hear anything.”

Officer Warinski crosses in front of James and follows the other officer outside.

“One moment,” Grace says from her seat on the sofa.

The men reappear in the doorway, remove their hats again.

“What is it you would have liked to hear me say?”

“Ma’am?”

“You’ve arrested a man?”

“He’s in our custody,” the taller officer says.

“What can I say to you, here and now, that will keep him from our streets? Tell me about this crime and I’ll say yes. I’ll say it happened. Even though it’ll be a lie, wouldn’t that help you?”

The officer with the dark curls and smooth skin steps forward. “Sir,” he says to James. “Will you leave us?”

“I damn sure will not,” James says, and drops down on one knee in front of Grace. “What are you talking about, Gracie? Did something happen?”

Grace stretches out one hand, touches James’s rough jaw. He only shaves every few days now. All of the men look the same—tired, drawn, their belts cinched a little tighter because even though the ladies feed them every day, they seem to have lost weight. Or maybe it’s the way they carry themselves, walking with short strides and hunched backs as if burdened by a heavy load, that makes them look like less than they were before Elizabeth disappeared.

“No, James. Nothing’s happened. But maybe I could say something that would help these men. Something that would help Elizabeth, help keep our streets safe.”

It’s too late to protect Elizabeth, but Grace can still save the twins or possibly another one of the ladies. She can get that man off of Alder Avenue before he tries again to set things right. If the one they’ve arrested knows what happened to Grace and that it happened here at this address, he must be one of the three. It’s probably the one who slipped out into the alley because he couldn’t bear the sight. He can give the police a name, direct them toward the man who did this terrible thing to her and to Elizabeth. But if there was no crime, the police will have no need of a name.

“Tell me,” Grace says. “I’ll say whatever I must to help Elizabeth.”

“Would you say a woman was attacked in your garage?” Again, it’s the officer with the dark curls. “Would you say three men threw her to the ground, that one of those men violated her while another held her down? Would you say those things?”

James pushes off the ground and lunges at the man. The second officer stops him with a stiff arm to his chest.

“Tell me, Mrs. Richardson,” the curly-haired officer says, ignoring James and keeping his eyes firmly on Grace. He drops his gaze to the small cut on her upper lip and lets his eyes roam over her face as if searching for more scratches and bruises. “Did these things happen? Did they happen to you?”

James stands at a distance, the other officer’s hand pressed to the middle of his chest. All three wait for Grace’s answer. She can feel the small hand of the girl, Cassia was her name, lifting Grace’s face, telling her the cut didn’t look so bad. The girl had seen worse, far worse. Nothing that won’t heal.

“Gracie?”

Grace shakes her head. “Well, of course those things aren’t true,” she says. “At least, not as far as I know. And I think I would know if someone were attacked in my own garage. I simply thought I could help.”

James holds up both hands and backs away from the officers.

“What will happen now?” Grace says. “Because there was no one harmed here, what will happen to the man?”

The curly-haired officer with the smooth skin pulls on his hat, meets Grace’s eyes as if preparing to answer, but turns away instead.

One more time, James makes a sweeping gesture intended to invite the officers to leave. They walk across the porch and down the sidewalk, and when they have neared the driveway, James slams the door.

“Smells like supper’s ready,” he says, walking past Grace toward the kitchen.

The legs of a chair scoot across the tile. Silverware clatters on the laminate tabletop.

“Strange, huh?” he calls back to Grace. His voice is flat when he speaks. He’s angry but won’t want Grace to see it in his face. “Why would some fellow say that about our place? About you?”

Grace walks over to the window and pushes aside the drapes. The officers have reached the end of the driveway. One of them, the curly-haired one, walks around the black-and-white patrol car, and from the driver’s side, he tips his hat at Grace.

“They probably got the wrong address, don’t you think?” she says. The officers’ car rolls away from the front of the house. Across the street, a few neighbors shield their eyes as they watch. “It was silly, what I did. I’m sorry.”

She’s now certain it’s the third man they’ve arrested. All she remembers are his eyes. They were a deep brown and his lids drooped, making him look sorry for what was about to happen. He’s the only one who would tell. Those men, all three of them, probably live at the Filmore. She has seen other colored men passing down the street at the usual times, but she hasn’t seen any one of the three, not since the night they came for her. The man, the one with sorrowful eyes, must have confessed to the police. He must have described Grace, told them the woman was pregnant and had long blond hair and lived at 721 Alder. That’s why the officer with the dark curls and smooth young face had looked at Grace like he knew everything. He knew about the sore spot on the back of her head and why her lip was split. Grace is the only pregnant wife on the block. Maybe the only one on the street. The officers want Grace to tell the truth because Elizabeth can’t. They are thinking it’s a shame when people won’t speak up. They are thinking Grace is their only hope. They are thinking there’s hope to be had.

James’s body is warm when he steps up behind Grace. He wraps his arms around her, and she leans into him.

“Don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you,” he says.

Resting her head on James’s chest, Grace closes her eyes, holds his hands, and wonders if he loves her enough to stay should he find out the truth. Mother thinks not. “Nothing bad will ever happen to us.”

“Promise me,” James says, burying his face in her hair.

“I promise.”

•   •   •

Before climbing into bed, Malina scrubs her face, dabs night cream on the delicate skin beneath her eyes, and tucks her hair into a sleep net. From the drawer in her nightstand, she pulls out her white pills and sets the bottle where Mr. Herze is sure to see it. He knows how heavily Malina sleeps when she’s taken one. Dr. Cannon had said they’d calm her, minimize the stresses of her day. Mr. Herze doesn’t approve of them, never has, and most days she is able to refrain by doing her counting and breathing.