Until She Comes Home (25 page)

Soon enough, the pile of carrots grows too large and falls over on itself, spraying orange slivers across the white tablecloth. Two cups per cake and she must have at least six cups by now. Everyone who comes to the bake sale hopes for one of Malina’s cakes. It’s a shame to disappoint any of them. Three more cakes means three more happy people. With both hands, she scoops up a pile of carrots and walks from the dining room toward the kitchen. A few of the orange slivers float down, spinning, tumbling onto the floor. As she passes the side door, she stops. Outside, voices continue to call out. Holding the carrots in her upturned palms, she kicks open the door and walks across the driveway.

Mr. Herze keeps his garage just so. He sweeps the concrete floor every Saturday and stores his nails and screws in wide-mouthed mason jars, each topped with a gold lid. Malina has ruined his tidy space with her bags and boxes. As if presenting the carrots to someone, Malina walks into the garage, stepping this way and that and lifting her knees when need be. Once near Mr. Herze’s workbench, she stops. Straight ahead, every outline on the pegboard is full. The hammer—Mr. Herze’s hammer—fits perfectly inside its black outline. The red-handled hammer, second tool from the left, hangs exactly as it should. Exactly as it had been the night Malina took it from the wall, tucked it in her handbag, and drove to Willingham Avenue. Exactly as it had been when that woman startled Malina and then said such terrible things. Things like what happens when a white man fathers a Negro child, how that baby will be the spitting image of the white man and everyone will know who fathered that child. And the girl, Mr. Herze’s girl, shouted at the woman to shut her mouth. Told the woman to never say one thing bad about the baby in the carriage or she’d be sorry. Goddamn it, she’d be sorry. The woman laughed at the girl. You’re crazy as a loon, the woman had said, and Malina ran away, leaving her hammer behind. That hammer, that same hammer, hangs exactly as it should in its spot on Mr. Herze’s pegboard.

•   •   •

Grace gets off the bus at Alder, and the moment she starts down the street toward home she notices something is familiar. Not familiar in a way that makes her happy to be home. It’s familiar in a way that makes her breath quicken, her skin turn cold, and her mouth go dry.

Balancing the pastry box on her large stomach and cradling the bag of mended clothes in one arm, she walks straight ahead, trying not to notice all of the ladies standing in their front yards, a few poking about behind bushes. She doesn’t take notice when cars drive up from behind and men who should be at work climb out. She doesn’t even look when James’s black sedan rolls past. A block ahead, he pulls into the driveway, doesn’t bother driving around to the garage, and runs back to Grace. He takes the box and bag from her.

“Anything?” he asks.

James’s hair is slicked back from his face where he’s combed it out of the way with his fingers, and smears of black grease cover his forearms where he didn’t take the time to wash up. A dull pain rolls around Grace’s baby. She doesn’t answer.

“Anything?” he says again. “Has Julia heard anything?”

Grace backs away.

“The twins?” she says.

Next, James will sketch a map of the neighborhood on the back of an envelope. He’ll draw boxes around each block and assign men two at a time. When it begins to get dark, all of the ladies will switch on their porch lights and they’ll bring hot coffee. They’ll check under porches and behind shrubs. A few men will walk around the Filmore, waiting, almost hoping someone from inside will come out. But they won’t. The police have already arrived, probably the same two officers, but this time they park at Julia’s house rather than Mr. Symanski’s. Only Grace knows what has happened. Only she knows how the men have grabbed the girls by their thin arms, made them cry out. The twins are both stronger than Grace, if not in size, then in spirit. They would cry loudly, as loudly as they could, but the men would silence them. Only Grace knows.

“Grace,” James says, bending to see into her face. “Are you well?”

The elms used to shade the front of their house and their lawn. Grace could leave the drapes open on the living-room windows year-round, but now the late-day sun would fade her sofa and carpeting. She holds up one hand to shield her eyes. James looks small, smaller than he ever has in all their married years.

“Did you check in the garage?” Grace says.

“The garage? You mean for the girls?”

Grace stares straight ahead at their own garage, its door open because she never closed it. Orin Schofield’s empty chair leans against the far corner where James must have placed it. Orin hasn’t come back outside since Grace called him to the street and showed him where the colored men now walk. She should have told Orin to pull the trigger. He’d have done it, if only she’d have let him.

Out on Alder Avenue, more cars pull into driveways and more husbands disappear inside before reappearing in their white undershirts and soft-soled shoes. Mr. Symanski comes too. He stands on the sidewalk outside Grace’s house. He wears gray slacks, a pair Grace hasn’t taken to the cleaners in several weeks. His white shirt is wrinkled and his tie hangs loose around his neck. His skin is fading to gray as if the life is draining out of him little by little. He won’t really die. Instead, he’ll continue to fade until eventually all of him is gone.

“Check every garage,” Grace says, and walks past James onto the street.

A
t the sound of a car door slamming, the officer with dark curly hair stands from his chair at the kitchen table and walks into the entry. Julia remains seated, her hands flat on the red tabletop. She leans back and fingers a small chip in the Formica. This is the spot where Izzy usually sits. Grace must have already cleaned the table because its chrome edging shines, no fingerprints or water spots. Julia is never able to get such a shine when she cleans. It’s the vinegar water Grace uses. Much stronger than Julia’s.

The slamming car door is followed by footsteps on the porch. It’ll be an officer or another man from the neighborhood asking for directions on where to search. Julia doesn’t bother to check who it might be. At the kitchen sink, Grace wrings out a dishrag. She hasn’t spoken since she arrived but promptly set about sweeping and mopping and scrubbing every surface with her strong vinegar water. Just as it was when Maryanne died. Grace is the one strong enough to tackle the inside of Julia’s house.

“They told me it happens sometimes,” Julia says.

Grace leans over the counter and continues to scrub the stains in the bottom of the sink, stains that have been there for years, stains Grace will get out that Julia never could.

“When Maryanne died, that’s what the doctor said. Did I ever tell you?”

Pushing off the counter, Grace takes a clean towel from the drawer to her left and dries her hands. Her blond hair is swept back and held off her face by a white band. It’s pure, lovely.

“Never seemed right to me. A baby dying for no good reason at all. Does that figure right to you?”

“No,” Grace says. “No, it never did.”

Julia should care this will upset Grace, make her worry after her own baby’s safety, but she doesn’t. She can’t.

“He killed her.”

A few feet shuffle, a reminder there are others in the room.

“Bill,” Julia says. “That’s why he’s gone. He killed Maryanne, and he’s seeing that I suffer for it. He’s seeing to it I never have another baby.”

Grace looks at someone beyond Julia’s shoulder, but she doesn’t care anymore what people know.

“Bill wouldn’t,” Grace says. “He’d never do such a thing.”

“He couldn’t stand the crying. That’s what he said. Couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, couldn’t work. Couldn’t be bothered with her crying.”

“Did he tell you this, ma’am?”

The voice comes from behind her. It’s the officer with the dark curls, the same one who couldn’t understand why Julia didn’t remember when the girls disappeared.

“I kissed James,” Julia says. The lie is like the crack of a whip in the quiet room. “There.” She points to the entry. “I kissed him right there, and I’m not one bit sorry for it.”

Grace glances at the officer as if he can explain. He shakes his head.

“Pardon?” Grace says.

“There,” Julia says. “In the entry. Because he came and you didn’t.”

The officer approaches the table, where he stands over Julia.

“Everything is pitch-perfect for you, isn’t it?” Julia says, staring at Grace and ignoring the officer.

“Ma’am, who is Maryanne?”

“You have your fine husband, and soon, a baby of your own,” Julia says. “Your house. Your friends. People think highly of you and James. They don’t even realize Elizabeth was your fault too. Your fault as much as mine.” Julia pauses, inhales, smelling the soap Grace squeezed into the bucket of water she used to mop up the food Julia threw across the room. “And now the twins are gone just like Elizabeth. No one will blame you for them, either. Only me.”

“Ma’am, do you believe your husband has killed someone?”

“It won’t always be this way, Grace,” Julia says. “Your baby could die too.”

It’s the worst thing Julia could say to Grace, worse even than the kiss. It’s the most hurtful thing. She’s not brave enough or good enough to shoulder this pain alone.

Grace unties the apron around her waist and lays it over the back of a chair. While the heat causes Julia’s hair to frizz, it smooths Grace’s, makes it shine, even under the kitchen’s poor lighting. Her cheeks are flushed and damp from the washing and scrubbing, but her eyes are dry and clear. She tugs on the blouse that hangs over her large stomach and clears her throat as if to say something. But instead she walks past Julia, past the officer waiting for Julia to give him an answer, and out the door.

•   •   •

Up and down Alder, porch lights shine as they did the night Elizabeth disappeared. But tonight, the air is cooler and easier to take in, even with the weight of the baby pulling at Grace’s lower back. The ladies stand outside their screen doors, some of them wearing aprons even though they won’t be serving supper tonight. A block and a half down Alder Avenue, the street is bright with porch lights and streetlights. Mr. Symanski stands under the nearest one, its glow hemming him in. As with Elizabeth’s search, he has been left behind by the other men. When Grace reaches her own driveway, she stands near the back bumper of James’s car. He didn’t take the time to drive it around to the alley and pull it into the garage. He leaves it in the driveway whenever he thinks he might need it again soon.

There are three of them this time. They are silhouettes walking up the street. Mr. Symanski must see them too. They pass the Filmore, where the windows are mostly dark and the parking lot half full. When the three shadows reach the streetlight outside Mr. Symanski’s house, they transform into three men. Grace walks into the center of the street. Still more than a block away, one of the men stops while the other two continue on. Even from this distance, Grace can feel him staring at her. He lifts a hand. She knows he is stroking his chin, petting it. She turns and walks back to her driveway.

These men don’t bother with the alley anymore—haven’t since Elizabeth disappeared, haven’t since they took her and killed her. In the beginning, long before the neighbors began talking about the Filmore and the coloreds, they passed only in the night when the neighborhood was sleeping. They would leave their green glass scattered through the alley so someone would know they had been there, so someone would know they were coming. But they have gotten away with what they did to Elizabeth and to Grace and now they’ve taken the twins. They are proud. He is proud, and he flaunts it by walking where good people walk.

The car keys lie in the center of the front seat. James knows he should stop being so careless, knows the neighborhood is a changed place and he can’t leave his keys lying about anymore. But there they are. Grace opens the door and picks them up, wraps her fingers around them, squeezes until the metal warms. She knows the house key because she has the same one in her handbag. The other key is too small. She tries the silver one. First one way, and then the other. It slides in. It turns.

•   •   •

With one clean hand, Malina reaches behind herself and catches the white ribbon that cascades down her back, descending from a delicate bow attached at her wide embossed collar. A back bow, the saleswoman called it. It’s Malina’s loveliest dress—a red-and-white floral print with an empire waist most perfectly suited to accentuate her slender figure. She does wish she had spent more time in the sun. A person might call her skin sallow, gray even. She could dab more color on her cheeks. That would certainly help. Yet her waistline is no larger than the day she walked down the aisle to join hands with Mr. Herze. For that, she is thankful and proud. But she does so wish she had soaked up more sun. Letting the ribbon slip through her fingers, she brushes her hands together and picks up the decorator’s bag.

She begins by cupping the white triangular bag in one hand so the large end stands open and the narrow end hangs toward the table. Next, she scoops up a spoonful of icing and drops it inside. Another few scoops and she folds over the wide end of the bag, squeezing it slowly until icing drips from the tip. She licks her fingers, wraps one hand around the small end, and places the other above the bulge of icing. Already, ten cakes have been iced and a scalloped edge drawn on each. Because it’s so hot in the house, the trim has slid off a few of them and is melting down the cakes’ sides.

It will be payday again. Eventually. It comes quicker than any other day. Even before Mr. Herze comes home, Malina can smell it. She smells it every day now, so maybe payday doesn’t matter anymore. That sweet musky smell will stick to Mr. Herze’s collar. She’ll fill the kitchen sink and soak the shirt overnight. A year of paydays has passed since she first smelled it. She didn’t know what it was in those early days. Only that it was a sour, unforgiving smell that seeped into her house and she could never quite scrub it away.

She squeezes the white bag and icing drips onto the cake. Too warm. A scallop won’t hold its shape if the icing is too warm. The consistency is so important, the most important thing, really. Not quite as stiff as the icing she uses to sculpt leaves and rose petals, but thicker and drier than what she uses to ice the top and sides. Hold the bag horizontal to the cake. Give it one short burst of pressure to lay down the wide end of the shell, then let up. Slowly draw the tip forward and tap it to the cake to cut off the flow. A single perfect scallop. She had thought the weather was cool enough, but the house is too warm. She should have opened more windows. Her scallop droops and melts over the edge. She straightens the bag and begins again.

Another cake is done. It’s all Malina can do today. The bake sale would normally have taken place in a few short weeks but they changed the date because Elizabeth Symanski disappeared and now they know she is dead. Now the cakes will have to set another few weeks. Shame Malina didn’t think of that earlier.

Malina lays the icing bag on the table, unties the apron from around her waist, wipes her fingers on it, and tosses it on the dining room table. In the foyer, she slips off her sensible two-inch heels and steps into the white stilettos with the slender toes. They are more suited to the red-and-white dress she wears. Admiring the curve of her delicate ankle, she rolls her foot in a slow circle. First one and then the other. Her calves, so perfectly formed, haven’t changed in all these years. So lovely. Taking a deep breath that makes her chest lift up and her lungs fill, she grabs the ribbon that flows down her back and walks toward the side door.

Eventually the child will outgrow that carriage. Eventually it will walk down Willingham, doughy and soft like Mr. Herze. It will be a creamy brown color and will tuck its small fist in its mother’s dark-brown hand. Eventually it will be tall and walk with a gait like Mr. Herze, shoulders rounded, hump at the base of its neck, always seeming tired, worn-out. Eventually everyone will know.

Eventually, someone will begin to suspect Mr. Herze killed that woman. They’ll discover that the woman, before she died, spoke poorly of the child in the carriage, and Mr. Herze, like any man, would protect his own. It’s the only reason a good man would kill. But then, someone, eventually everyone, will tap their heads and purse their lips and think a wife would do the same. Mistakenly, accidentally, she would do the same. She would lash out with the only thing she had in hand if suddenly she realized her husband was father to another woman’s baby. And lastly, they’ll realize as they should have in the first place, that it was the mother. Wouldn’t the mother—the girl—kill to protect her child? Wouldn’t that be most likely of all? And the man who loves the mother—the girl—would protect her because he is good. He would bring home the hammer that did the killing and put it back as if that night, that terrible night, never happened.

A man who would do these things doesn’t covet the baby’s mother because she is thin and slight. He protects her and so he must love her. Nor does he covet the twins across the street who skip through sprinklers and trample lovely snapdragons. He watches those twins with a longing, missing the children he could never have with his wife. He watches those twins and imagines the day his child by another woman does the running and skipping and laughing. He loves the baby and he loves its mother. Eventually, someone, everyone, will know.

Within hours, the men will end their search, if not because the twins are found, then because they must rest and prepare to begin again tomorrow, and Mr. Herze will come home. The police will realize Mr. Herze and Malina saw the twins last. If Malina is wrong, and Mr. Herze looks upon the twins with a foul sort of longing, the police will discover it. They will wonder why Mr. Herze would make a gift of those flyers and they’ll discover the truth. Surely the police will discover it. If they don’t, Mr. Herze will in due course remarry. This new wife won’t tolerate a house tainted by Malina. This new wife will be thin and slight and she’ll insist they move north, where the yards stretch out and the homes are newly built. The twins will be safe because Malina is gone.

Letting the screen door slam shut behind her, Malina crosses the drive and walks into the garage, where she makes her way through the bags and boxes, sidestepping them, trying not to damage the dangling hems and cuffs. The last of the clothes are ready to be delivered to the thrift store. Clean and folded, properly mended. Someone will see to them. The key to Mr. Herze’s storage cabinet hangs on the pegboard inside a carefully drawn line right next to the hammer. Both of them, a perfect fit. Outside, voices shout—Izzy, Arie and Isabelle, Arabelle. Engines rattle to a start, screen doors slam shut, dogs bark at strangers in their yards. Surely, someone will see to all these clothes.