Until She Comes Home (9 page)

“Come in here,” she says, leaning into the living room and waving Grace toward her. She jabs a single finger at Grace and then at the kitchen. She did the same when Grace was a child.

Grace wears nothing on her feet, so no one hears her until she clears her throat. With a shallow bow, she greets Mr. Symanski. Both men lift out of their chairs.

“Sit,” she says. “Please, sit. What can I get you, Charles?”

Mr. Symanski waves away the offer and Mother points at a chair so Grace will know to take a seat.

Glancing over her shoulder, Grace says, “I’m so very sorry. From in there, I overheard.”

James stands, pours Grace a cup of coffee, adds one sugar and a splash of cream. “You feeling better?” With one finger, he raises her chin. “What’s this?”

Grace touches the small cut on her upper lip. The swollen spot is smooth and tender. She lays her other hand over James’s, squeezes it. Just as the relief of feeling her baby move made Grace cry, the warmth of James’s hand lifts her tears to the surface. She blinks them away.

“We bumped heads,” Mother says, sliding between Grace and James to place folded linens on the table. She finger-presses the fold in each as she positions it. “Last night. When I was pulling muffins from the oven. My fault really. You know how clumsy I can be.”

“Got you good,” James says.

“Please don’t fuss. Charles, are you getting plenty to eat? Mother, do you have seconds for him?”

“Your fever gone?” James says, brushing aside Grace’s hair and placing one hand on her forehead. “Feel cool. That’s good. But you look tired. Are you tired?”

The ache in her neck and shoulders makes Grace want to slouch forward and rest her arms on the table. She stretches and straightens her back so no one will notice. The baby stretches too. She’s settling in, getting comfortable. Grace draws her fingers across James’s cheek. It’s rough because he didn’t take the time to shave. Mother places a plate of eggs before Grace. James slides the salt and pepper toward her.

“It’s the heat,” Grace says, not knowing how long since James last spoke. “It wears me down.” She lifts one of the napkins Mother set out on the table, gives it a shake, and lets it float across James’s knee. Next, she drapes one across her own knee.

Turning his attention to Mr. Symanski, James lights a cigarette and rests both elbows on the table. What can he and Grace do? Does the rest of the family know yet? James would be happy to make a few calls before he leaves for the church. Mr. Symanski says there is no other family. There is no one. Mother leans in and whispers in Grace’s ear while the men talk.

“Start eating.”

Grace lifts her fork, twists it from side to side, studying it.

“I brought some things,” Mr. Symanski says. “You ladies are gathering clothes, yes?”

“For the thrift store,” Grace says.

“We put them in the garage.” James tilts his head back and blows out a stream of smoke. “Five or six bags, wouldn’t you say, Charles?”

“There is being six.”

“That’s fine,” Grace says. “I’ll see to them. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

Mr. Symanski exhales as if he feels lighter now. They must be Ewa’s things, clothes that have hung in the closet as painful reminders.

“The police will be coming soon,” Mr. Symanski says. “About the shoe.”

Grace drops her fork. It topples off the edge of the plate and comes to rest on the table.

Mother frowns and returns it to the plate’s rim. “They found a shoe,” she says to Grace. “Near the river.” Mother is letting Grace know it wasn’t her shoe they found. It was another.

“Didn’t intend to trouble you with it until you were feeling well,” James says.

“A shoe?” Grace says.

“We thought you might remember. It’s white with a soft rubber sole. Is that the type Elizabeth was wearing?”

“I am knowing I should remember,” Mr. Symanski says. “A father should be knowing, but I don’t know white shoes or black shoes or any other shoes. The police show me, but I am not knowing.”

“I’m not certain,” Grace says. “I would have to think about it.”

James rubs his cigarette into a small glass dish. “It’s not to concern yourself with now. The police will come. They’ll show you what they found.”

“What if my Elizabeth is being gone?” Mr. Symanski says, and chokes again. “Is that meaning she isn’t alone, isn’t frightened? Is that better?”

“Yes,” Grace says, blurting it out before she can stop herself. She can’t tolerate the thought of Elizabeth living in the aftermath of what those men, that man, surely did to her. “I mean, yes,” she says again. “Elizabeth knows she’s not alone, never alone.”

The skin under Mr. Symanski’s eyes hangs in deep crescent-shaped folds. He stares at Grace as if hoping she’ll say more.

Picking up her fork, Grace spears a small bit of her scrambled egg. “Elizabeth liked white sneakers. Wore them often,” she says, staring at the prongs of her fork. While the men came for Grace in her own home, they must have taken Elizabeth to the river and dumped her there. “As I remember, it troubled her when they got scuffed or dirty. Ewa would buy a new pair to make Elizabeth happy.” She smiles and touches Mr. Symanski’s hand. The loose skin is cold and dry. “Ewa would fuss as if those white sneakers were a bother, but she didn’t really mind them. Elizabeth has many pairs, doesn’t she?”

“You are thinking it was my Elizabeth’s shoe?”

Grace places the cold eggs into her mouth. They lie on her tongue. She swallows so she won’t gag.

“Yes,” Grace says. “I think, perhaps, it was her shoe.”

J
ulia and Bill pull into the church parking lot later than most. Bill shifts the car into park, turns off the ignition, and crosses his arms on the steering wheel. He leans forward, resting his head on his hands, and exhales loudly. Julia and the twins have barely seen him in the past few days. His cheeks look to have thinned out, though it hardly seems possible it’s happened in such a short time, and dark circles hang under his eyes.

“Today,” he says, rolling his head to the side so he can see Julia. “Today’s the day we find her.”

Directly in front of them, the rounded nose of an old gray Plymouth rolls up, and the driver’s-side door opens. Mr. Symanski pushes himself up and out of the car. Wearing a shirt and tie and a dark jacket that sags on his narrow shoulders, he shuffles no more than a few yards before one of the ladies glides up alongside him, takes hold of his arm, and escorts him to the front of one of two lines that snakes through the parking lot.

The lines are new this morning. As the neighbors and parishioners of St. Alban’s climb from their cars, they take their place at the end of one of them. Bill motions for Julia to do the same, while he joins the men gathered near the entrance to the church basement. Julia cradles in one arm the loaves of sweet bread she mixed up and baked this morning and takes her place at the back of the closest line.

All of the ladies, like Julia, are dressed in fitted jackets and tailored skirts. Already many are fanning themselves with old church bulletins and fussing about desserts that will spoil if forced to sit out in this rising heat. Julia glances at her watch. She promised the girls she would come home at lunchtime to grill them cheese sandwiches, but given the length of this line, she might still be waiting when noon rolls around, though for what, she isn’t sure.

“Why the holdup?” Julia asks the gentleman standing in the line next to her. She recognizes him and his wife from services but can’t remember their names.

“Taking names,” the man says. Without looking in Julia’s direction, he helps his wife slip off her peplum jacket.

“Who’s taking names? And for what purpose?” Julia hugs her sweet bread in hopes of keeping it warm. When she goes home at lunchtime, she’ll mix up four beef-and-corn casseroles to be baked at the church and served up for the men’s supper. She’ll definitely have to make a trip to the market tomorrow.

“Police,” the man’s wife says. A gold bobby pin has pulled loose at the nape of her neck and sparkles where it catches the light. “They’re recording who is here and who isn’t. They found her shoe, you know. Down by the river.”

Julia starts to ask why the police would do such a thing, but even though she doesn’t entirely understand, it’s clear enough they think who is or isn’t here might have some bearing on what did or did not happen to Elizabeth. It’s clear enough that had Elizabeth simply wandered off, the police would have no interest in who is or is not participating in the search.

The line doesn’t move as slowly as Julia had feared and when she reaches the front, Bill rejoins her. Two police officers sit behind a metal table, thick binders opened up before them. One asks questions of Bill and Julia; the other, of the man and his wife. Bill answers, giving their name, address, and the names of their neighbors on either side. He answers yes without even a glimpse of his surroundings when asked if he recognizes everyone he sees and answers no when asked if he has seen any strangers joining in the search. He also points out the two latter questions are, in fact, the same question asked two different ways.

“That’s the point,” the officer says.

Julia leans around Bill. “The point to what?” she asks.

The officer ignores her and says, “Have any neighbors, friends, or relatives failed to include themselves?”

Again, taking no time to consider his answer, Bill says, “No.”

Next to Bill and Julia, the man and his wife scan the people who mill about before answering the same question.

“Jerry Lawson,” the woman says, finally tucking in the loose-hanging pin.

The other officer nods as if she is not the first to mention that name.

“What of Jerry Lawson?” Bill says, resting both hands on the table. Even hunched over, Bill is taller than the man.

“He is not here,” the woman says while her husband remains silent. “They asked who is not here, so we told them.”

“Why on earth would you take it upon yourself to mention the Lawsons?” Julia says. “They’re not neighbors of yours. If they were, you might recall they have only recently become parents.” She smiles at the officer. “A few weeks ago. We would never expect them to be here with a new baby at home.”

“Actually, they adopted,” the woman says. “And we have every right to mention Jerry Lawson. Everyone here knows of his troubles.”

“A new baby is a new baby,” Julia says, more loudly than she had intended. Ladies toting casserole dishes and covered pots and pans and gentlemen escorting the ladies by the arm stop to listen. Julia frowns at them and waves them on their way. “It doesn’t much matter where that sweet baby came from.” And then, because news of Jerry Lawson standing in the middle of Alder wearing little more than his undergarments while arguing with Warren Herze has obviously made its way to St. Alban’s, she turns to the officer and says, “This woman is spreading gossip, and it stinks so bad she might as well be spreading manure. She knows Jerry Lawson’s troubles have nothing to do with Elizabeth Symanski or this search.”

Before Julia can say anything more, Bill wraps one hand around her wrist and squeezes, a signal she need say no more. He gives her a wink.

“No one is unaccounted for among this group,” he says to the officer. “Write that down. No one is unaccounted for.”

When the officer has asked his last question, Julia follows Bill toward the church basement. She feels it as they pass among the others waiting in line and climbing from their cars. The early assumption that Elizabeth would be found walking aimlessly down Woodward first gave way to the worry she wandered all the way to the river and now, because the police are taking names and asking questions, these early theories have given way to fears of a violent end for Elizabeth.

•   •   •

Mother’s pierogi. Walking into the kitchen, this is what Grace smells. Because James said so, Grace will stay home today while the other ladies work at the church. It’s for the best, Mother had whispered as James gathered his things to leave for the day, and Grace had to agree even though she felt guilty for having nothing to contribute. With her back to Grace, Mother stands at the stove. Her elbow juts out to the side and moves in a small circle. She is stirring the pierogi so they don’t stick. Already, Mother has made enough of the crescent-shaped noodles to cover two trays. Potato and onion. They were always Grace’s favorite.

“Will you take them to the church?” Grace says.

Mother nods, pulls a cast-iron pot from the oven, and motions for Grace to take a seat. Wearing mitts on both hands, Mother carries the large pot to the table, sets it in front of Grace, lifts the lid, and lets the padded mitts drop from her hands. With her fingers, she plucks a damp towel from inside the large pot and tests that it’s not too hot by tossing it from hand to hand. Once satisfied with its temperature, she rolls it up and presses it to Grace’s neck and shoulders.

“He wanted to check in on you,” Mother says, returning to her noodles. “Called three times while you were sleeping. I told him you were fine and spent the morning rolling out pierogi.”

Grace grabs hold of the warm towel with both hands and draws it around her neck. “So he knew you were lying,” she says with a laugh, but stops herself when the small slit on her upper lip tears open. Holding the towel in place with one hand, she flips open the newspaper left on the table since breakfast. A few days ago, she searched the paper for news of the dead woman on Willingham, mostly for Julia’s benefit—something to talk about other than the baby in the corner. Today, she’s looking for news of Elizabeth and of herself, though she won’t find anything about what happened to her.

Mother walks back to the table, this time with a plate of warm pierogi. She places them in front of Grace, pours a glass of milk, and slides the salt within reach. “You’ll want some of that nice pink lipstick today,” she says. “It’ll freshen you up.” And then, waving a hand at the swell in Grace’s belly, she says, “Go on and eat. You need to eat.”

As Grace cuts her pierogi into thirds, the thing she has done since she was a child, Mother fishes half a dozen noodles from the potato water and taps them out on a sheet of waxed paper.

“Any sign?” Mother says, dropping the last few uncooked noodles in the pot. When Grace doesn’t answer, Mother gives another wave in the direction of Grace’s belly. “Having a man so close to the end can spur a baby on. Any sign she’s thinking about coming early?”

Grace shakes her head.

“Drink that milk then, and let’s go.”

Grace follows Mother out the kitchen door, down the concrete stairs, and toward the back of the house. At the garage, Mother lifts its heavy door and throws it overhead.

“Can’t be afraid in your own home,” Mother says, stepping into the garage. She kicks at a small sliver of glass and motions for Grace to join her.

“I’m not afraid,” Grace says. “In a day or two. I’ll come out in a day or two.”

“Today.” Mother tucks under her skirt, sinks to her knees, and picks up glass Grace missed the night before. “Now. Or it’ll sink in. It’ll get the better of you.”

Grace looks down the alley and then out toward the street.

“It’s not yet noon on a Sunday,” Mother says, tossing a few pieces of glass in the garbage can. “Damn fool like that isn’t going to be out and about on a Sunday morning.” She gives another nod, directing Grace inside. “You check over there. Won’t do if this glass finds its way into one of James’s tires.”

Grace might have thought panic would swell up as she entered the garage. She might have thought her breathing would quicken, her heart would begin to pound, sweat would break out across her brow and upper lip. But all is quiet. She floats deep into the garage. The outside air had ruffled her skirt, but inside, the air stops. Her hair hangs down her back, held off her face by a white silk scarf. Her skin is cool and dry. She lowers herself onto hands and knees, lays one hand flat on the dirt floor, and moves it slowly and lightly from side to side, searching for bits of glass.

“Put that damn fool thing away.”

It’s Mother. She has left the garage and disappeared into the alley. Grace pushes herself to her knees. Now her chest begins to lift and lower. Her breathing does quicken. Her heart does pound.

“Good Lord in heaven.” It’s still Mother. “You are the damnedest old fool I ever laid eyes on.”

Two faces pop around the corner of the garage. The twins. Their skin is tanned and freckles pepper the bridge of their noses and the rounds of their cheeks. Their long red hair has been woven into braids, two on each girl. One raises a hand. A wave. Julia is next to appear. Her red hair has been tightly wound and pinned on top of her head. Because she wears her nicer heels and her linen skirt, Grace knows she’s been to the church already today. Grace walks over to one of the garbage cans, lifts its lid, and lets glass tumble from her hand.

“Your mother is about to clobber Orin Schofield,” Julia says, a white porcelain casserole dish cradled in her hands. She must have gotten word Grace wasn’t feeling well and she’s brought food. “You better get out here.”

Across the alley, Orin Schofield stands near his garage and holds the same piece of wood he carried the night Elizabeth disappeared.

“It was one of those two,” he says, jabbing the board at the twins.

“Quit your fussing,” Mother says. “And get yourself back inside.”

“I saw them running.” Orin stabs at the air again. “Running right there. One of them, anyway. Just last night. Right there. Broke my damn window, they did.”

“A window was broken?” Grace asks. Once outside the garage, her pounding heart slows and the air is easier to inhale

“Third one in two nights,” Orin says, dropping the board to his side, leaning on it and pulling a kerchief from his front pocket. He mops his eyes and neck. “And they set my garbage on fire. My garbage. Damn near burned down my house. Thought it was those colored boys from down the block. Thinking maybe I was wrong.”

Julia shakes her head. “Orin, you think these two put a match to your garbage? They aren’t even allowed out of the house. Bill has threatened to take a belt to their backsides if they disobey. And believe me, they won’t risk that.”

“We didn’t break your old window.” It’s Izzy. Arms crossed, one hip thrust to the side, she faces Orin. “Or set fire to your stinky garbage.”

“Manners, Izzy.”

The other twin, Arie, stares at Grace. Her eyes seem to settle on Grace’s split lip. When Grace glances her way, the girl lowers her eyes to the ground.

“Mr. Schofield, sir,” Izzy says. “We did not break your window or burn up your garbage.”

“What about that one?” Orin says, poking the board in Arie’s direction. The collar of his white shirt is too big for his neck, as if he’s shrunk over the years, and his pants pucker where he’s pulled his belt too tight. “That one have anything to say?”

Arie slides backward, shaking her head.

“That’s enough, Orin,” Julia says, handing the casserole dish to Grace and taking a step toward Orin. “You’re frightening the girls. You brought those broken windows on yourself. Running your mouth down at the Filmore. Brought it all on yourself. If you’ve anything else to say, you take it up with Bill.”

“I said it before,” Mother says, stretching overhead and pulling closed the garage door. “And I’ll say it again. Get on inside, you old goat.”

Orin hobbles to his garage, leaning on his board as he goes, then grabs a rusted metal folding chair from inside and pops it open at the alley’s edge. “Don’t let me catch the two of you poking around my house.” Orin slaps the chair’s canvas back and brushes off its seat. “See this chair? It and I will be here in this alley every day. I’ll be keeping an eye out. Keeping an eye out for you two or whoever else is causing trouble. You know what’s best,” he says, lowering himself into the seat, “you won’t let me catch you.”