Until She Comes Home (8 page)

Definitely Arie.

“What’s this sour face all about?” Julia unwraps Arie’s arms to get a good look at her. “What’s wrong, sugar?”

The house is dark except for a light that shines from inside the girls’ room. Arie’s fair eyelashes glitter in the soft glow, and she blinks slowly as if forcing herself to stay awake.

“Let’s get you tucked in,” Julia says.

Inside the girls’ room, Izzy sits up in bed, her eyes wide. One lamp flickers at her bedside.

“Told her to stay put,” Izzy says, swinging her legs over the edge of the mattress so her feet dangle to the floor.

Julia walks Arie to her bed and pulls back the covers, but rather than crawling in, Arie steps up to the window and looks down on the street below.

“I just don’t know, Aunt Julia,” Izzy says. “She’s been acting this way all night.”

“Is something troubling her?” Julia says, speaking to Izzy but watching Arie stand at the window, her face and hands pressed to the mesh screen. A breeze kicks up and tousles her hair, but she doesn’t move away or wrap her arms around herself even though the air is cool.

Izzy pops out of bed. “How would I know? I didn’t do anything. I think she’s afraid of getting snatched like Elizabeth.”

Julia rolls her head around until her eyes meet Izzy’s. “No one snatched Elizabeth. That’s a terrible thing to say.”

Izzy crosses her arms and stares at Julia for a moment before letting her gaze float off to the side.

“Aunt Julia,” Arie says, her face still pressed to the window screen. “I don’t see Mr. Lawson.” She waves a hand to get Julia’s attention. “Go get Uncle Bill. Go get him and tell him to stop Mrs. Lawson.”

Julia walks up behind Arie. On the street below, Betty Lawson, pushing her carriage, has neared Julia’s house.

“What do you mean, sugar?” Julia says. “Stop her from doing what?”

“Mr. Lawson, he’s not there. He’s not watching from the driveway.”

Julia leans around Arie to get a better view out the window, but Arie pushes her away.

“Get Uncle Bill,” she says. “Get him now. Tell him to stop Mrs. Lawson.”

“You need to calm down. Get yourself in bed, and I’ll go see to her.”

Arie dashes past Julia.

“Arie,” Julia says. “Don’t wake Uncle Bill. I’ll go. I’ll see to it she gets home.”

Arie stops at the door, one hand on the knob. “No,” she says. “I don’t want you to. Uncle Bill has to go. Uncle Bill.”

“What’s wrong with you, Arie?” Izzy says, dropping on her bed, bouncing once and coming to rest against her headboard.

Arie leans into the hallway. “Uncle Bill,” she shouts. “Uncle Bill. Uncle Bill.”

Julia rushes across the room. “Arie, hush. What on earth has ruffled your feathers?”

Pulling away from Julia, Arie jumps into the hallway. “Uncle Bill, hurry. Uncle Bill.”

Bill appears in the threshold leading to his and Julia’s bedroom. He stretches his eyes open and struggles to thread a second arm through his shirt.

“Go, Uncle Bill. Hurry.” Arie lunges for Bill and pushes him toward the stairs. “Go get Mrs. Lawson. Go stop her.”

Bill looks at Julia over Arie’s head and Julia lifts both hands in the air, palms up, to signal she doesn’t know what to tell him.

When Bill reaches the bottom of the stairway, Arie runs back into the bedroom. Julia follows and together they watch out the window. One story down, Bill appears on the sidewalk. As he walks toward the street, he buttons his shirt and looks up and down Alder. At the end of the sidewalk, he lifts a hand and says something, though from the second-story window, they can’t hear.

“There,” Julia says, pointing toward the street. “See there. Do you see? That’s Mr. Lawson. He’s right where he always is, keeping an eye. See that? He’s in his undershirt and shorts.” Julia starts to laugh but Arie’s eyes shine like she’s about ready to cry. “Mrs. Lawson is safe, Arie. Safe and sound. She’s on her way home already.”

Arie dips her head until she can see Mr. Lawson and doesn’t move until Betty and the baby have returned to their own driveway.

“Is everything all right now?” Julia says. “Ready for bed?”

Instead of bouncing onto her mattress like her sister, Arie slides under the sheets and lies stiffly while Julia pulls up the covers and tucks them in around her.

“You’ll sleep well?” Julia says, smoothing Arie’s hair off her face and kissing each cheek. At Izzy’s bed, Julia does the same. Bill appears in the doorway, leans there but says nothing. “I have early rhubarb in the refrigerator. Pink and sweet. You girls can mix up your pie tomorrow. Something fun to do while Uncle Bill and I are at the church.” Looking down on Izzy, she says, “There has to be something you’re not telling me. Did you two behave today?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Izzy says, folding her arms and kicking off her sheets and covers. “It’s not my fault she’s completely bats.”

“You sure do favor your mama when you talk like that,” Julia says, and then is sorry for it.

Izzy rolls away at the mention of Sara, Julia’s sister. All the girls know of their mother is what they see when they look at Julia.

Julia switches off the lamp and, outside the girls’ door, cuts out the hallway light. She pulls the door halfway closed and says, “Remember, pie in the morning.”

“Aunt Julia,” Arie says. It’s Arie because Izzy won’t speak to Julia until morning, not after the mention of Sara.

“Yes, sugar.”

Arie pulls loose of the tightly tucked covers and pushes herself into a sitting position, not intending to sleep for a long time. “Elizabeth is never going to come home.”

•   •   •

Arie waits until Aunt Julia has pulled the door closed, but not all the way closed because the girls like a slice of light from the hallway to shine into the room, and she waits some more until Izzy has rolled away and yanked the top sheet over her shoulder. When Izzy’s breathing changes from short puffs of air she exhales because she’s angry with Aunt Julia into long, slow breaths that mean she is asleep, Arie slips one finger under the rosary hung from her headboard and drapes it across her lap.

Grandma has always said the rosary is made of mother-of-pearl beads and that’s why it’s something special. But then Izzy will say mother-of-pearl beads don’t splinter and chip and that rosary is no more special than any other. Every night back home at Grandma’s house, Arie runs her fingers over the smooth beads, usually while holding them under the sheet she has tented with two bent knees. Even though she tries to hide her praying from Izzy, Izzy always knows.

When she was younger, Arie would pray for Mama to come home and sometimes still does. Then there was the Russian dog. Arie prayed only five prayers a night for her and never told Izzy or anyone else because praying for a Russian, even if she was a dog, was probably a sinful thing to do. Izzy says Arie doesn’t do it right anyway. She is supposed to recite Our Father and Hail Mary and follow a path around the beads. This is why Arie hides them and waits until Izzy is asleep. Tonight, as she slips her fingers from the first round, cool bead to the next, she thinks she’ll say twenty prayers for Elizabeth. Or maybe twenty isn’t enough. Maybe she’ll pray all night until morning comes and somewhere along the way, she’ll say a prayer for Mrs. Richardson, too.

Day 3

I
t came down directly from the bishop. A special dispensation, he called it. No Mass on this Sunday morning. Every parishioner was excused. The search for Elizabeth was far more important and wouldn’t the good Lord agree. Malina was certain He would.

This morning, Malina has flyers for the men to nail on lampposts and tape in store windows. Mr. Herze had one of the girls in his office make them on a machine at work—a perfect, crisp stack of one hundred flyers, one exactly like the next. A marvel, really, and a blessing in a situation such as this. With the stack tucked securely under one arm, Malina kicks open the kitchen door, the pan of butternut rolls she carries still warm. At the car, she sets the rolls and flyers on the backseat, tucks under her skirt, and stoops to her flowers.

The snapdragons have sprouted early this year. The red, yellow, and pink blossoms draw a colorful border that extends along the front of her property and follows the walkway to her front porch. She reaches into the towering plants and yanks out a dandelion, inspects the threadlike roots, sniffs them, and tosses the weed aside. Another strange smell, but this time, it has polluted her flowers. This is her third visit to the car, and with every trip, the smell grows more robust, as if gaining strength as the day heats up. Whatever the source, it’s not the roots of a dandelion.

All along Alder Avenue, wives click up and down their sidewalks because, although there is no Mass today, it’s Sunday and they feel obliged to wear their leather heels, slender skirts, and white gloves. They carry trays of fried chicken and meatloaves baked early this morning. Others carry desserts, finger foods the men can easily grab. Something sweet and frosted to lift their spirits. Directly across the street, a burst of laughter erupts and those two young girls tumble out of Julia Wagner’s front door. Oversize gardening gloves dangle from their hands. Their wiry arms and legs are bare. Once on the porch, where they must remember the block is praying for Elizabeth Symanski’s safe return, the twins silence themselves, walk down the stairs to the front yard, kneel on the sidewalk that leads to the street, and begin to pull weeds.

It’s been the same since the twins were three years old. Early every summer, Bill Wagner pulls in the drive in time for supper and two girls crawl out of his backseat. When they were younger, they would wear sweet plaid dresses with puffed sleeves and Peter Pan collars. Wearing a full bib apron, Julia would greet them and kiss each on top of her head. But this year, instead of lace-trimmed dresses worn thin at the seams, the girls wear matching navy shorts and blue-and-white striped blouses. Malina didn’t get a good look at the one she saw last night because it was too dark, but this morning, it’s apparent they’ve grown up in the past year. They’ve let their red hair grow well beyond their shoulders and their cheeks have thinned out. It’s also apparent their skin is a darker shade. Obviously they are allowed to play outside unattended for hours each day. Their legs, too, are changed. They are longer, thinner. Their hips, straight and narrow. Their arms, slender, even frail. They could almost be mistaken for young women.

If not for the color of their hair, they could almost be mistaken for Malina.

At the sound of her own front door opening, Malina pushes back on her knees. Mr. Herze’s hard-soled shoes hit the wooden porch. The screen door slaps shut. Staring across the street, most probably at those two girls, Mr. Herze mops his forehead with a white kerchief. He is already suffering though the day has yet to heat up. Malina greets him with a wave and lifts a forearm to wipe the perspiration from her top lip, but stops short of touching herself because that smell has grown stronger. It’s urine. She’s smelling urine.

“I’m making a mushroom soufflé this evening,” she says, staring down at her bare hands. Someone has urinated on her flowers. “I hope you’ll be able to make it home for supper. These long days will take their toll.”

Without bothering to lock the front door, Mr. Herze marches across the porch and stomps down the stairs and toward the street. “Not in my yard, Jerry Lawson,” he shouts.

Malina stands, holding her arms out to her sides so as not to touch herself with soiled hands, and looks for what has drawn Mr. Herze’s attention. It’s Jerry Lawson, coming at them from across the street. He wears blue-and-white broadcloth boxers and a V-neck cotton undershirt. At the curb, Mr. Herze stops, stretches his shoulders back, which causes his large stomach to jut out, and lifts a flattened palm toward Jerry, who is fast approaching.

“Don’t you come any closer,” Mr. Herze says.

Jerry stops in the middle of the street. His lower jaw is gray with a heavy shadow. His undershirt is untucked; his boxers, rumpled. He wears only stockings on his feet. Across the street, the twins have disappeared inside. Jerry reaches out to Mr. Herze, not to shake hands, but as if he wants to brace himself on Mr. Herze’s arm.

“What is a man if he doesn’t have a job?” Jerry says.

Mr. Herze yanks Jerry toward him until they are standing close enough to whisper. Mr. Herze does most of the talking, though Malina can’t hear what is being said. He points toward the Lawsons’ home and shakes his head a few times.

“Wait,” Jerry shouts when Mr. Herze begins to walk away.

Mr. Herze stops, exhales, and circles back.

Jerry points at Malina, directly at Malina, and takes one step toward her.

“She knows,” he says. “Mrs. Herze knows.”

Malina slides next to the car, putting it between her and Jerry. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“You saw me,” Jerry says.

Mr. Herze jams a hand in the center of Jerry’s chest, preventing him from moving any closer to Malina.

“Tell him,” Jerry says. “Tell him you saw me from your car. I waved at you and you waved back.”

Malina leans into the sedan, not at all worried her yellow dress will pick up dust or grime. “What is all this about, Warren?” she says. “What ever has gotten into him?” She glances at the neighbors on either side, wondering who might hear. Most have already left for the church.

Mr. Herze drops the hand from Jerry’s chest and turns to Malina.

“I know you saw me,” Jerry says, stepping up beside Mr. Herze. “That Wednesday night. It was nearly eleven o’clock. I was here, in my very own driveway. You were driving that car.”

Mr. Herze stretches one arm across Jerry’s path but he keeps his eyes on Malina. “Malina?” he says.

“Yes,” Jerry says. “You remember. Betty was walking Cynthia. Pushing her in the stroller. I was nowhere near Willingham. Nowhere near that woman. Tell him, Mrs. Herze.”

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Mr. Lawson,” Malina says. This is why the counting and breathing don’t work. There’s never time. Shielding her eyes from the scantily clad Jerry Lawson, she says to Mr. Herze, “I don’t drive at night. And certainly not at that ridiculous hour. Tell him, Warren. Tell him how the glare bothers me so. I don’t know what this is all about, but I most assuredly have no comment on the matter.”

“You were driving that car,” Jerry says, pointing at the pale green sedan parked in front of Mr. Herze’s car, and again he tries to press forward, but he can’t get at Malina because Mr. Herze blocks the path with a stiff arm. “That car right there. You drove to the corner and turned down Woodward.”

Malina knows from many years of experience to keep her eyes on Mr. Herze. She knows not to let them drift to one side or the other. It’s how he knows she’s lying. “I’m sorry I can’t help you,” she says. “You’re mistaken, I’m afraid.”

Mr. Herze grips the front of Jerry’s rumpled undershirt, pulls him close, and speaks in a whisper. Jerry says nothing else, certainly nothing Malina can hear. Mostly he shakes his head. Signaling the conversation is over, Mr. Herze drops Jerry’s shirt, tucks in the front of his own shirt where his belly has pulled it loose of his trousers, and walks back to the house. Reminding herself to smile, Malina opens the passenger-side door, smooths under her skirt, and sinks into the front seat. She closes her eyes and rests her arms on her lap, her palms open, not touching anything. Outside, Mr. Herze walks back to the front porch, locks and pulls twice on the door, and joins Malina in the car.

“Warren,” Malina says, blinking because keeping good eye contact is more difficult when Mr. Herze is sitting this close. “Have you fired Jerry Lawson?”

It’s the question any wife would ask under normal circumstances.

“Him and three others.”

“Has it to do with those women on Willingham?” Malina reaches across the bench seat and rests one hand on Mr. Herze’s thigh. It’s the thing any wife would do. “Has it to do with the dead woman?”

“The police will see to it,” Mr. Herze says. “It’s of no concern to you.” With both hands on the steering wheel, he stares straight ahead at the back end of Malina’s car. “Is there truth to what he says?” His knuckles and the backs of his large hands are white from clutching the steering wheel. “Were you driving that night?”

“Why would I ever be out at such a late hour?”

Mr. Herze lets go of the steering wheel with one hand, pulls the lever to put the car into reverse, throws his arm over the seat back, and looks out the rear window. Malina looks too. The twins have reappeared on the porch and Bill Wagner stands between them.

“You’re quite certain,” Mr. Herze says, waving at Bill and the twins through his open window as the back of the car swings around and the front points down Alder Avenue.

Perhaps Malina should have told Mr. Herze the truth when he first asked. Yes, she was driving and she did see that ridiculous Jerry Lawson. And then a lie. It had been her night to deliver supper to the shut-ins and she’d forgotten. Yes, it was awfully late to be serving supper, but because she had felt so guilty for overlooking her responsibility, she took the food anyway. That’s the reason she drove down Alder that night. She wasn’t checking up on him or looking for the source of that nasty smell he brings into her house. But she hadn’t said any of those things. She’d lied, promised she’d been at home all evening, and it’s too late now for stories about shut-ins and supper trays. In answer to Mr. Herze’s question, Malina nods but doesn’t try to speak because her voice will crack and give her away. That’s another one of the things that always gets her in trouble.

“Very well,” Mr. Herze says, and throws the car into drive.

•   •   •

Mother came into Grace’s bedroom an hour ago, threw open the heavy curtains and white sheers she had closed the night before, and told Grace it was high time to get up. You’re feeling better, she said—a statement, not a question. No sense sleeping the day away. There’s food to be made and men to be fed. After taking Grace’s robe from the closet and laying it across Grace’s lap, Mother disappeared into the bathroom where she rummaged through the drawers. When she returned, she sat on the bed’s edge, dipped a small sponge into a heavy foundation, and dabbed at Grace’s cheek. After a few moments, Mother leaned back and lifted her face as if to get the best light. There must have been a red mark or possibly a bruise, but it was covered now and Mother said again for Grace to hustle herself on downstairs. Company was coming and it wouldn’t be fitting to sleep all day.

“Do you smell it?” Grace had said before Mother disappeared through the door.

Mother glanced at the open window but didn’t answer.

“The tobacco. The factories. Don’t you smell it?” Grace drew in a deep breath. “Do you remember them?”

The smell of damp tobacco, sweet and rich, floated across the city every morning of Grace’s childhood. When the weather was nice, she would wake beneath an open window and inhale, knowing the thick scent would be there. Many such factories stood then. Now, only a few.

“Don’t be silly,” Mother had said. “It’s the fireworks you smell. Time to get moving.”

At the bottom of the stairs, Grace holds on to the banister with one hand and rests the other on her stomach. It’s a habit, must be, because she doesn’t realize it’s there until a tiny foot, or maybe a knee, bumps her from the inside. All night, the baby was busy rolling and knocking about in Grace’s stomach. Now that Grace is awake, the baby will quiet down. The movement of Grace’s typical day—the comings and goings, hanging out the laundry, climbing the stairs, boarding the bus to Willingham—will calm the baby, soothe her. For the baby, all is unchanged and that’s enough to keep Grace on her feet.

There are voices coming from the kitchen. Two voices. Men. One is James, no mistaking that. The other is strained, barely clear. Grace stretches forward but doesn’t move her feet. Yes, that’s Mr. Symanski. Mother is whisking eggs in Grace’s frying pan and coffee bubbles up in the percolator. She is feeding Mr. Symanski. A pop. Toast popping up in the toaster. Two slices, slightly charred. They are always a bit overdone. Mother will scrape off the blackened crust with a serrated knife and dump the crumbs in the sink. Outside the house, car doors slam. A man shouts out to his wife, “Don’t forget the batteries.” It’s a reminder the search will go into the night.

“They are not saying what it means,” Mr. Symanski says. “They say it may be meaning nothing. They say only that she isn’t being found yet.”

A spatula scrapes the bottom of the skillet. Mother is dishing up the eggs. Forks clatter on the table. Chairs scoot across the tile. Grace leans on the banister, bracing herself. She knows Elizabeth is gone, even if the others don’t. Elizabeth didn’t wander off. He took her, that man, and she won’t ever come home.

“If it was being the river,” Mr. Symanski says and at this, his voice breaks. He starts again. “If she is being lost in the river, they may never be finding her.”

“What more did they tell you?” It’s James’s voice.

“They are having little hope. If she made her way that far, the people who are living there, the people who might have been seeing something, will not be caring to offer help. They are asking me where she would go. That is the only place she knew. The only place Ewa would take her.”

Water runs in the sink and the fresh scent of dish soap spills out of the kitchen into the living room, where Grace stands. Moving about as she sets the salt and pepper on the table, opens and closes the refrigerator, drops dirty dishes in the soapy water, Mother catches a glimpse of Grace.