by Lori Roy
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 t
o 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.”
Day 4
CHAPTER TEN
It’s Monday morning and traffic is light along Woodward. It’s as if everyone in the city has spent these past few days searching for Elizabeth and is exhausted by it. Pressing one hand against the seat back in front of her as the bus pulls away and letting the other rest on the swell in her stomach, Grace hopes none of the ladies will notice she has forgotten her white gloves. She must have overlooked them on her bedroom dresser or possibly on the table near the back door.
Before leaving to catch the bus this morning, Grace had touched Mother on the sleeve and said, “I think I should tell.”
Setting aside the broom she had been pushing across the kitchen floor, Mother covered Grace’s hand with one of her own. “It’s Monday,” she said. “Go to Willingham. Fill your cupboards. They’ll be needing more food down at that church.”
“It might help the police.” Grace lingered in the doorway. “What if those men, that man, did the same to Elizabeth? What if he does it again? James’s only concern will be for me. For the baby.”
“Heaven help that child if those men got her,” Mother said, holding open the door so Grace could pass. “But your telling won’t change that.” Then she smoothed Grace’s blond hair, a reminder to keep her makeup fresh and her hair carefully combed, pinned, and sprayed. A pretty face will keep peace in the house.
“Don’t think more of your husband than you should,” Mother had said. “Don’t make that mistake.”
Continuing down Woodward, the bus gathers speed and the morning air, just beginning to warm, rushes through the open windows. Reaching up with one bare hand, Grace holds her pillbox hat in place. The other ladies don’t bother with hats anymore. They don’t care to ruin their new, higher hairstyles, but today Grace wears her gray pillbox with the velvet trim she normally wears only on Sundays. It covers the small gash on the back of her head she worries might be seen. She shifts her weight from one hip to the other to avoid the cross-breeze. Not meaning to, she lets out a soft groan. Mother said Grace’s tailbone is only bruised and she shouldn’t carry on about it.
“Grace,” Malina Herze says, leaning across the aisle. “Are you okay, dear?” Malina cups the tight curl on the end of her dark bob.
Grace drops her bare hand to her lap. “I’m fine. It’s just this heat.”
Reaching out with her own white-gloved hand, Malina squeezes Grace’s wrist. Grace flinches but doesn’t pull away. Her wrists and arms are sore, still ache where one of them pinned her to the ground.
“Don’t be fooled by the bake sale’s new date, dear,” Malina says. One of her carefully tweezed eyebrows, the right one, lifts, her forehead crinkling when she notices Grace’s exposed hands. “You heard, didn’t you? It’s postponed only a few weeks. You know, of course, pierogi freeze quite nicely. No need to wait until the last minute.”
While Saturday brought news of the white sneaker found along the river, Sunday passed with no news at all. And today, Monday, the search will continue even though the men should be returning to work. Others at the factory will work evening shifts and over the next weekend if they have to, over as many weekends as it takes, so the men from Alder and its neighboring streets can continue to look for Elizabeth. These workers have pledged their overtime to the families of those who search.
Monday also brought news that the bake sale has been officially postponed and that Malina Herze has taken up the job of organizing the ladies. Just as she had a schedule and a list for the bake sale, she now has a schedule and a list for the search. This morning, Malina gave the wives of Alder Avenue the morning off to tend to their families and run their errands. From this day on, they’ll work in four-hour shifts, preparing food, cleaning up after the men, brewing fresh coffee. They must hope and pray every day brings news of Elizabeth’s safe homecoming, but must also brace themselves for a new kind of life, one that may include never knowing what became of the girl and a search that may never end.
Just past the thrift store, the bus stops, its door opens, and Julia appears. She must have had Bill drop her at the store this morning. Usually, she and Grace do their volunteering together. Many times over the years, they’ve sorted donations at the small shop under Malina’s watchful eye. Grace would scold Julia when she pulled the blouses inside out before slipping them on a hanger. Julia would hang them up anyway and when Malina asked why they were laughing, Grace would say it was nothing, just a silly joke she had told. Once Malina busied herself with another load of clothes, Grace would turn the next blouse inside out, slip it on a hanger, and give Julia a wink.
Knowing Julia will sit next to her, Grace slides toward the window to make room and rests her face against the glass. A sharp pain shoots through her cheek and up into her eye. She straightens in her seat and pulls a compact from her purse to check her lipstick. Across the aisle, two of the ladies smile at her with tilted heads. Grace, with her bulging stomach, is a reminder to them, to everyone who sees her, that life will go on. No matter how terrible the news of Elizabeth might be, those ladies see Grace and think she is sweet and beautiful and that she’ll give birth to a child who is the same.
“Didn’t expect to see you today,” Grace says when Julia drops onto the seat next to her.
Julia doesn’t answer and instead points toward the street. Two men walk out of the hardware store next to the thrift shop. One of the two carries a clipboard. He scribbles as they walk to the next store. Once there, he yanks on the door’s handle and both disappear inside. They are men looking for Elizabeth. The busload of ladies has paused to allow the men to pass.
There is talk this morning of the women on Willingham. No one has thought much about that dead woman in the days since Elizabeth disappeared. There’s been no news of the woman, no arrest. Now that they’re traveling back to Willingham, thoughts of her work their way back to the surface. The ladies are worried, too, though no one wants to say it aloud, that maybe the dead woman sheds some light on what became of Elizabeth. All around Grace, the ladies have been talking about the police they’ll most likely see on Willingham. It’s possible there is no more work to be done in the alley where that woman was killed, but they’ll definitely be searching the river because today is day four, the day the men say Elizabeth’s body would surely float to the surface if she had drowned.
“Bill dropped me on his way to the church,” Julia says once the bus has pulled away from the curb. “I’ve had the girls cleaning out closets. Gives them something to do while I’m gone.” Then she whispers, “Too many bags to tote on the bus. It’ll drive Malina wild to find out I dropped them off at the store myself.”
Grace lets out a short laugh but tries not to smile. Every smile causes the small cut to split again. Julia is the only one of the ladies Grace laughs with. The others make her altogether too aware of the length of her skirt, the curls in her hair, or the shade of lipstick she has chosen. She worries her choices are all wrong and that the ladies will later whisper about her. Julia is the friend who would tell Grace if a lipstick shade was unbecoming, but only so she could snag the tube for her own use.
“Did you hear?
” Julia says, leaning in to whisper. This is how it starts. She’ll say something funny, something irresistible, even today, even knowing Elizabeth is still gone. Julia wants things to be normal again too. “About Malina’s flowers?”
Grace shakes her head.
“Someone urinated on them. Walked right down the middle of the street and there in front of God and Alder Avenue, urinated on them. More than once, it would appear.”
“That is not true.”
“Told me herself. She’s started spraying them at all hours. Poor things are already waterlogged. They’ll be wilting before you know it. Probably won’t last the month.” Julia tells the rest from behind the cover of one hand. “She actually thought the twins had done it. Cornered me at the church and accused them. So, of course, I asked her to explain the logistics of that. She agreed it would be rather difficult. And rather conspicuous.”
“Julia, stop,” Grace says, trying not to smile so her lip won’t swell up on her. “It’s not right to carry on like this.”
On past bus rides, Grace and Julia would sometimes laugh until Grace’s cheeks and stomach ached. And when, later in the day, Grace would return to an empty house, she could never recall what had made her laugh, but the memory of it always made her smile. Later still in the day, Grace would call. What are you fixing for supper, one would ask the other. Coffee? I’ll be right down. Usually Julia came to Grace’s house. And then after supper, one last call asking how that beefsteak turned out or what’s the best way to tackle a grease stain, to which Julia would reply . . . don’t throw out the shirt, throw out the husband. And again, they would laugh.