by Lori Roy
“I saw her,” she says. “Elizabeth was home. I’m sure she was home. Surely someone else has seen her. Surely I wasn’t the last.”
• • •
Malina steps away from the window when Julia and a police officer walk down Julia’s driveway toward the street. She leans against the wall, where no one will be able to see her, and continues flipping through the newspaper. Twice she’s read through it and has yet to find anything about the dead woman on Willingham. If only a reporter would have commented on the woman’s stature. Was she slender and petite or on the stout, portly side? This is all Malina needs to know.
If it weren’t for all the people shouting out to Elizabeth Symanski, Malina might open a window or two to cool down the house. While her skirt’s wide, six-yard sweep is perfectly suited to emphasize her narrow waist, it’s a curse in the heat. It’s only her imagination that those voices are getting closer. The men aren’t circling her house, closing in because they suddenly realize Mr. Herze is not among them. If anyone asks why Malina’s driveway is once again empty at long past suppertime, she’ll tell them Mr. Herze is busy dealing with that nastiness down on Willingham. Someone must coordinate with the police and see to it the matter of that dead woman is solved. This is what she’ll tell them, but only if someone asks.
“Good evening.”
Malina closes the newspaper, crumples it as she draws it to her chest, and swings around. Mr. Herze stands in the doorway, his briefcase in one hand, his hat in the other.
“You’ve startled me,” Malina says. She folds the newspaper in thirds. “I didn’t expect you home so early. I rather thought the police would be keeping you busy.”
Under the soft glow thrown by the porch light, the fringe of white hair around Mr. Herze’s head glistens with perspiration. This unusual heat, even when it breaks in the evenings, is difficult for him to manage. He glances at the newspaper Malina still holds in one hand and then at Malina.
“It’s yesterday’s,” she says. “Today’s is there.” She points at the entryway table. “Right there, waiting for you.” Malina won’t search today’s paper for news of the dead woman until Mr. Herze has gone to bed, or better yet, not until he has left for work tomorrow.
“You must be famished,” Malina says. “The table is set. I’ll have supper on in no time.”
“What’s going on out there?” Mr. Herze says, kissing the cheek Malina offers him and then leaning through the open door.
Across the street, the officer and Julia still stand at the end of her driveway. Malina lures Mr. Herze into the house with a nod of her head and closes the door. He pulls a kerchief from his front pocket, pats his upper lip and forehead, and glances about the house as if wondering why it’s so hot. His white shirt has wilted since this morning, and it clings to his soft middle.
“It’s nothing,” Malina says. “A lot of fuss over nothing.”
This is how it should always be—Malina waiting at the dining-room table, supper in the oven, the ice bucket full. She should never find herself rushing through the back door, stuffing one of her nicer dresses in the closet, ruining a perfectly good pair of utility nylons because she couldn’t take the time to slip them off with care, and crawling into bed without removing her makeup or pinning the hair at her temples. After leaving Willingham Avenue, her hammer abandoned in the alley, this is what she had done. As it turned out, she needn’t have been in such a hurry. Mr. Herze followed a full thirty minutes later. The hair at the nape of his neck had been slightly damp and he smelled of fresh soap. His shirt, however, smelled of the girl. No matter that he always washed up afterward, only Malina could rid those shirts of the stench. This evening, he appears dry throughout and smells only of cigarettes smoked in a closed office, warmed-over coffee, and the faded remnants of cologne sprayed on first thing this morning. No trace of his girl.
“What do you mean, nothing?” Mr. Herze says. “Why are there people running about with flashlights? And why are there police on the street?”
Malina sets Mr. Herze’s briefcase in the front closet and hangs his hat on the hook inside the closet door.
“I imagine it has to do with Elizabeth Symanski,” Malina says.
“What of her?”
Malina smooths Mr. Herze’s thinning hair, rests one cheek on his shirt, the limp cotton moist against her skin, and inhales through her nose. Still no evidence of the girl.
“Elizabeth?” Mr. Herze says again, nudging Malina to continue. “What’s become of the girl?”
“Apparently, she’s wandered off,” Malina says, pulling away. Tomorrow, she’ll fish this shirt from the hamper and smell it again.
“And they are searching for her?” Mr. Herze says, crossing in front of Malina to look out the dining-room window. “Have there been many men searching?”
“Yes, I suppose there have been.”
Without another word, Mr. Herze lumbers up the stairs, taking them two at a time. A few minutes later, he returns, wearing brown trousers and the white undershirt he normally wears when fussing about in his garage. His chest pumps and his face glistens.
“Have you taken to driving at night again?” Mr. Herze’s face, except for the sheen on top of his head, disappears in the dark entry. His white shirt glows.
Malina inhales, holds the air in her chest, and slowly, so Mr. Herze will not see it or feel it or hear it, she exhales. “Certainly not. Why on earth would I do such a thing?”
Mr. Herze trails his fingers over Malina’s wrist, past her elbow, and wraps them around her upper arm. He knows she doesn’t care for sleeveless blouses, doesn’t like for others to see the loose skin that hangs there, and so this particular area will never show. His fingers dig into the slender bone.
“It’s difficult for you still to see after dusk?”
Malina smiles, controls each breath so it flows smoothly. “The reflections are intolerable.”
Still holding Malina by her arm, her fingertips tingling from lack of blood, Mr. Herze opens the door. He stands in the threshold, not quite inside, not quite out.
“So, you’re home then? Every night?” he asks, and slides his hand up to Malina’s shoulder, where he burrows his thumb under her delicate collarbone.
The proper name is the clavicle. She knows because Mr. Herze once broke one of hers. He presses his face close and studies her eyes. He’s inspecting her for signs she’s taken one of her pills. She stares back, doesn’t let her eyes stray, holds her lids wide while reminding herself to blink so he’ll know she hasn’t. Dr. Cannon says if she does her counting and gets plenty of fresh air, she’ll have no need of them.
“You’re certain you’ve not taken to driving after dark?”
Malina drifts closer to Mr. Herze so anyone passing will think she is nuzzling her husband.
“Why would you ask such a silly thing? I have so much to do with my evenings. I can’t remember the last time I started an engine after sunset.”
And before she can stop herself, Malina has lied to her husband.
Day 2
CHAPTER FIVE
It’s been one full day since Elizabeth disappeared. Grace stands at the kitchen window, both hands resting on her hard, round stomach, and looks onto the dark alley, hoping Elizabeth will shuffle out from behind the garage, her arms stiff at her sides, her head lowered. But there is no one. The night air is cool and motionless. Inside, the oven clicks and heats the house, filling it with the smell of apple-banana muffins. Grace gathers her hair on top of her head, twists it, pins it in place, and turns her face toward the small fan Mother placed in the open window. The fan rotates from side to side, drawing in the outside air, cooling Grace’s face and neck.
The neighborhood is quiet because after a full twenty-four hours, no one expects to find Elizabeth on Alder Avenue. The search has moved north and south, east and west. After the first night, James brought home maps of the city, and like he did on the back of an envelope, he drew boxes, numbered them, and wrote men’s names inside each. When Saturday m
orning broke, everyone piled in their cars and congregated at the church. James separated the men and told them where to go. All day, they searched. They walked along Woodward Avenue, stopping in every shop, store, or restaurant to ask if anyone had seen Elizabeth. They knocked on doors, asked neighbors to unlock sheds, and pressed their faces to the windows of parked cars. For now, no one is talking about who killed that woman on Willingham or if men will lose jobs for taking up with colored prostitutes. All is forgotten until Elizabeth comes home.
Grace spent the day at the church with the other ladies while the men searched. The ladies gathered in the basement and kept the coffee brewing and plenty of hot food at the ready. But at five o’clock, James took Grace home because her ankles and fingers had swelled and she was kneading her back with her fists. “No more,” he had said as he pulled into their driveway and left the car to idle. “You’ll stay home from now on, for the good of the baby.” He loves Grace, wants only to protect her and the baby they have dreamed of for five years. It’s all Grace has ever wanted—a man and a child to love. Now she has both. Maybe it’s too much. Maybe it’s more joy than one woman should have and that’s why this bad thing has come into their lives. “You and your mother stay with the phone,” James had said before leaving Grace and returning to the search. “Call the hospitals again. You never know.” And then he had held Grace’s face in his two hands, made her meet his eyes with hers, and said, “You have to stop blaming yourself. You know how she wanders. Don’t worry. I’ll find her.”
It’s well after dark when the ticking from the small timer over the stove begins to slow. It stops altogether and dings. Mother pulls a tray of muffins from the oven and sets them on the table. She’ll take them to the church in the morning. If Elizabeth is found tonight, and surely she will be, the muffins freeze well, so there’s no harm in making as many as they can manage.
“They’re dry,” Mother says, tapping the top of each muffin. “Told you those bananas weren’t ripe enough.” Her silver hair is pulled back as it always is for baking and she wears a loose gray duster. “I’ll have a new batch in the oven in no time.”
“Don’t throw them out,” Grace says. “We’ll need as many as we can bake.”
But even as Grace says it, Mother dumps the silver tray and a dozen muffins tumble into the trash can sitting near the back door.
“Put yourself to use,” Mother says, poking her fork at the overflowing garbage and then at the screen door. “Go on and take that out before it draws bugs.”
Grace gathers the trash can and pushes open the door. At her last appointment, Dr. Hirsh said her joints would start to loosen soon to make room for the baby. He warned her to take care she didn’t stumble into a nasty fall. The baby is growing heavier every day. She is especially heavy late in the afternoon and into the evening, so with her free hand Grace holds the metal railing and carefully makes her way down the three concrete stairs, testing each with her toe before stepping down with her full weight.
Any moment, news will come that Elizabeth has been found. Life will resume. Mother will return to her own house east of Woodward. James will fix the leak in the hot-water faucet upstairs, tighten the banister, trim the back bushes, so things will be just right before the baby arrives. Grace will wash all the diapers, blankets, and clothes the neighbor ladies have passed on. She will fold them, each one carefully, all the while talking to her baby girl, telling her about her new room; her strong, handsome daddy; the patch of green grass in the backyard where she will hopefully play next spring in the shade of the maple tree. Though James is rooting for a boy, because every husband does, Grace knows she is carrying a little girl, has known it from the first flutter, and once James sees the tiny face, he will love his baby girl as he loves his wife.
Outside, all up and down Alder, the houses, though empty because everyone has joined the search, are lighted up in hopes Elizabeth will find her way home. Rounding the back of the house, Grace listens for the deep voices she sometimes hears late at night. As she nears the garage, the light from the kitchen throwing a dim glow into the alley, she sees their glass. There’s more every day. Tomorrow, Grace will pick it all up and not tell James. She jerks her head left, thinking that was the sound of gravel being crushed by a heavy foot, and then right, thinking something or someone has rattled a doorknob.
Bracing the trash can against one hip, Grace backs toward the garage. The porch lights throw odd shadows, some long and thin that stretch across the ground, others round and broad that crouch at the alley’s edge. Only when she notices the Williamsons’ house does she exhale and realize she had been holding her breath. A light shines in Mrs. Williamson’s kitchen window and in an upstairs bedroom, where Mr. Williamson listens to his ball games. Not everyone has gone to the church. Some of the older folks have stayed behind. Those are probably the sounds of Mrs. Williamson fussing about in her cabinets or washing the supper dishes. On such a lovely evening, she would have left her windows open and noise does have a peculiar way of traveling among the tightly knit houses. But there is that sound again—tiny bits of gravel crushed under a heavy foot.
• • •
At the church, the ladies have had all day to realize that Julia folds a sloppy linen and dishes out servings that are too large. By day’s end, they are weary of cleaning up after her and so put her in charge of the coffee. The search will soon end for the night, and when the men return, they’ll want something hot and fresh. The job is really quite important, the ladies say. You are the best cook among us, no question about that, and you brought so much food. More than your share. Let us take care of the serving. So while Julia sees to the coffee by readying two percolators, fetching the cream, and scrounging up silver tongs to accompany the box of sugar cubes, the rest of the ladies tend to a table crowded with covered casserole dishes and foil-wrapped trays. Mr. Symanski is the only man among them. He sits on a wooden chair near the kitchen, his back rigid, his feet resting on the ground.
At the bottom of the narrow stairwell leading into the basement, the first of the men appears. They were instructed to quit by ten o’clock. The police insisted. No one wants those men roaming the streets any later and giving the police more to contend with. After last night’s search, everyone agreed there was no sense looking on Alder anymore. The men, at least two to a car, were to roll through the nearby streets and call out for Elizabeth. She doesn’t like to be left alone and she doesn’t like the dark so she’ll stay near the houses with brightly lit porches. Call out that Ewa wants her to come home. She’ll believe it even though Ewa is dead.
After the first man appears, another follows and then another. Under the white lights, their skin looks gray. The ladies hurry toward the men, arms extended, and usher them to the food. The first night of the search, which went on until morning, the men had looked tired, their eyes red from squinting in the darkness, but they had all agreed daylight would bring more success. Tonight, as more men duck under the low-hanging threshold and congregate at the food table, the overhead lights throwing heavy shadows on their faces, their backs are rounded and they shake their heads from side to side. Their hope has faded.
The men stand in small groups that grow as more searchers file down the stairs and, slowly, some of the ladies abandon their serving duties and join the men. A few of the ladies suggest the bake sale be postponed, but Malina Herze says it’s too early to consider such a thing and reminds the ladies to keep those donations to the thrift store coming. Each time a new man walks down the stairs, every head turns as if the searchers and their wives are expecting some news. Arthur Jacobson, who lives well north of Alder now but still comes to Sunday services at St. Alban’s, is one of the last to walk into the basement. With hat in hand, he gestures toward the narrow windows that open out onto the parking lot above.
James Richardson and a few other men stand in the parking lot with two police officers. A streetlight shines, its yellow glow penning in the group. Even from this distance, Julia can see that James is tiring. H
is head hangs and he kneads his forehead with the palm of one hand. He doesn’t only have the search to cause him worry, but he must also worry after Grace and their baby. As one of the officers reaches out to show something to the group, James and the others lean in. After a few moments, they stand back, almost in tandem, and shake their heads.
A few more words are exchanged and the group breaks up, the officers walking to their patrol car while James and the other men drift toward the church entrance. The group inside the basement breaks up too. Julia returns to her coffee, where she busies herself by straightening and counting the cups and saucers. Twenty-three won’t be enough. The room where they usually hold wedding receptions and celebrations of first communion is almost full. Resting her fingertips on the table’s edge, Julia says hello to Harry Bigsby, the only man to come for coffee. She slides a cup and saucer toward him and offers him cream.
“May I get you a plate, Harry?” she says, taking his corduroy cap and brushing lint from its brim before handing it back.
“Doesn’t look good,” he says, shaking off Julia’s offer. He dips his head in thanks and walks toward the center of the room.