by Lori Roy
“We should all go to Mrs. Nowack,” Doris Taylor had said. Doris brought cinnamon rolls to the bake sale every year even though they always sold poorly. She used too few pecans and consistently overcooked them. “All of us together. As one. We’ll tell her we’ll not shop in her store if she refuses to close her doors. One of our ladies might be tempted to go to Willingham on payday if the bakery remains open. It’s for our own safety. Malina said so herself just the other day.”
Again, the ladies looked to Malina. “Of course,” she said, letting out a long sigh, and smiling. “It’s a fine idea. You should listen to Doris.”
Malina had worries of her own, more than enough, and no desire to take on the worries of others. Laying her head back so as to avoid any more gaping mouths, Malina had stared at Grace Richardson sitting across the aisle. Looking straight ahead, her eyes seemingly focused on nothing, Grace had rubbed her two bare hands in slow, steady circles over her round stomach. Every so often, her eyelids slowly closed and took so long in opening again, Malina wondered each time if Grace were asleep. She didn’t wake from this stupor until Julia Wagner boarded the bus.
“Maybe those women will leave now that one of them is dead,” a lady had said as the bus pulled away from its stop outside the thrift store. “And you know, don’t you, that men have been fired. If there are no men left who will open a pocketbook, those women will all but vanish.”
“We shouldn’t be talking about this,” said another. “Think of Elizabeth. It’s all so unseemly. It’s disrespectful to her, don’t you think?”
And then the conversation turned to Jerry Lawson. By now, everyone knew, even those who lived blocks from Alder, that Jerry had been fired. What a shame for poor Betty Lawson. What was she to do now that she knew such things about her husband? What was that poor child to do? What was her name? Cynthia, wasn’t it? Poor Cynthia, all but abandoned. Jerry would be able to make no sort of living. The ladies next wondered aloud if it was only one woman for Jerry Lawson or if he took several. One would be worse than many, they all agreed, because if it were only one, that might mean he actually cared for her. My God, it might mean he actually cared.
“My Harry said the woman was killed with a hammer.” The lady’s name escaped Malina. She lived somewhere just north of Alder and rarely attended services. “Can you imagine? The police could tell, just by looking at the woman, that it was a hammer, or something much like it. How do you suppose they know such things? How does one look at a hole in the head and know what caused it?”
“What do you know of the dead woman?” Malina said, still watching Grace rub her hands lightly over her stomach as she chatted with Julia Wagner. The two were not listening to the ladies talk but were giggling among themselves.
“Why on earth would you ask?” several of the ladies said, one echoing another.
Malina gripped the seat in front of her, bracing herself as the bus neared its stop at Willingham. What must it look like when a person is hit in the head with a hammer? “Have you read anything? Have your husbands told you what she looked like?”
Doris Taylor pulled a tissue from her handbag, folded it, and blotted her fresh lipstick. “She was one of them. What more could possibly matter?”
There must have been a time when Mr. Herze’s girl looked like Grace Richardson. The girl probably rubbed her hands over her stomach and stared at nothing, her thoughts filled with dreams of a healthy, happy baby and a man to love her. If Mr. Herze’s girl were the dead one, what had become of the baby in the carriage? Malina had leafed through every newspaper that landed on her doorstep since the day that woman, some woman, was killed. She studied the papers until the ink stained her fingertips and the paper had torn at the fold, not certain why it mattered to her or why she craved any hint as to which woman had died. But every day the craving grew. Even if she knew, it wouldn’t help her predicament. No matter who died or who killed her, Malina had still told a lie.
“It’s no never mind,” Malina had said as the bus slowed to its stop at Woodward and Willingham. “I’ll see you ladies at the bakery in twenty minutes. What a fine idea you’ve had, Doris.”
As Malina nears the alley where the woman was killed, she walks mostly on her toes so her red leather heels don’t slap the concrete and give her away. At the alley’s entrance, she stops and tugs on her three-quarter-length sleeves. The saleslady at Hudson’s said not everyone could wear the new length but Malina, being as tiny as she is, would carry it beautifully.
For so much to have transpired since the woman was killed, the alley looks no different, except perhaps it appears smaller in the daylight, less foreboding. Seeing it again for the first time since that night, the alley isn’t so long and dark, and what had seemed like quite a distance when she was following that woman and her carriage is really no more than a few steps. For an instant, Malina is tempted to travel those few steps and look for the hammer she dropped. It would be a relief to have the proper tool hanging on Mr. Herze’s pegboard again, but that is foolish thinking. The police will have found that hammer, or possibly someone else found it, and whisked it away. Before temptation can again overwhelm her better judgment, Malina continues toward the river.
The colored women stand in a small group. A few of them sit on the curb, their long black legs stretched before them. Others sit cross-legged on the same curb, picking at blades of grass or their own unkempt nails. Still others stand in the middle of the street. There was a time, not so long ago, those women wouldn’t dare show themselves on Willingham Avenue. But the highways have pushed them west and north, and now every day they inch closer. Often they are seen lounging, waiting, biding their time until the ladies finish their shopping and leave for the day. They’ll all but take over on paydays, some of the ladies say, and that is likely the beginning of the end. Soon the ladies will be chased from Willingham just as they were chased from Beersdorf’s Grocery. Already some of the ladies have begun traveling to Hamtramck to do their shopping.
Standing on the outskirts of the group, almost as if she is not one of them, is the girl. Malina worried that she might not recognize her, but even from this distance, almost a full block away, there is no doubt. The girl has a kind of grace about her, probably due to her slender limbs and long neck. Wondering if the girl has smooth skin, Malina takes a few more steps toward the group. Slowly, as if the girl senses someone staring at her, her head rolls to the side and she looks back at Malina. Other heads turn. A few of the women push themselves off the ground. Others cross arms over their chests.
A tall, round woman with heavy legs sticking out from a black skirt stands in the center of the group. She has narrow shoulders, flabby arms, and surprisingly large hips. Like the others, she turns to face Malina, but even as she turns, the large woman doesn’t move the hand that clutches the handle of a baby carriage. This woman is much taller than the one who frightened Malina in the alley that night, though she does bear the same unfortunate shape. The woman takes a step toward Malina, and yet she doesn’t let go of the carriage. She is protecting it, protecting the baby inside, from Malina.
There couldn’t possibly be more than one such carriage. The one parked in the middle of the street has the same large metal wheels, the same black canopy, and if Malina could get close enough, it would have the same squeal as the one the girl pushed. This large woman, however, is built like someone who has birthed a baby—full roomy hips, soft sagging arms. It hadn’t seemed possible Mr. Herze’s girl could be the mother. Her hips were narrow; her legs, frail and lean. That night on Willingham, the girl must have been watching over the baby, doing a favor for the real mother. It makes sense she would be kind. Mr. Herze likes proper manners and polite conversation. He appreciates kindness. His girl is graceful and considerate. It shouldn’t be a surprise. While Mr. Herze’s girl is clearly not the dead one, there is no need to peek inside that carriage.
Back on Willingham, the ladies will be finishing their shopping. They’ll gather now inside Nowack’s Bakery, where they’l
l buy up all the apple cakes. It’s the thing Mrs. Nowack bakes every Monday and probably what drew many of the ladies to Willingham today when they might otherwise have preferred to stay away. Malina will want to get to the bakery to buy one of the cakes for Mr. Herze before they’re gone. He does like a slice, lightly dusted with confectioner’s sugar, before bed. Once Doris Taylor and the others have had their say with Mrs. Nowack, no one will be buying anything.
Malina should feel some relief that the child is not Mr. Herze’s doing, but there’s still the matter of Jerry Lawson pointing at her and accusing her. He might storm across the street again, give Mr. Herze reason to doubt Malina. She really does wish she hadn’t lied. After a few backward steps, those Negro women staring at her all the while, Malina swings around, no longer concerned if her heels slap loudly against the concrete, and walks back to Willingham and Nowack’s Bakery as quickly as her slender skirt and three-quarter-sleeve jacket will allow.
• • •
Two weeks before Grace was to marry James, Mother said it was high time Grace learn to make pierogi. Mother stood at Grace’s stove and shook her head. “Butter will scorch,” she had said, and slid the pan of simmering onions to a cool burner. They tried again two days later. What else could Grace offer if not a warm supper every night? On the second day, Grace strained the cooked potatoes, pouring the water down the drain. Again, Mother shook her head. Her recipe said to retain the water from the cooked potatoes. Grace boiled a half-dozen more and Mother sighed at the waste. Mother gave up after the third try, when Grace added too much filling to the pierogi. Grace crimped the edges with a knuckle as she had seen Mother do, but she had rolled the dough too thin, and each crescent-shaped dumpling split when she dropped it into the boiling pot. Cheesy potato filling clouded the water.
“What else have you to offer?”
Setting a bowl of pierogi dough on the kitchen table where she can lean over it and use her weight, Grace presses, folds and turns the dough, presses, folds and turns. Mother’s dough is always smooth and elastic. Grace’s sticks to her fingers in heavy white clumps. Stepping off the early-morning bus that returned her to Alder well ahead of the other ladies, Grace had thought the cooler, drier air of early day would help her dough. If this batch of pierogi turns out well, she’ll send them to the church with James and then make and freeze more for the bake sale. She adds another spoonful of flour, and with the heel of her hand, begins again. Hearing a shout from the back alley, she straightens, nearly knocking the bowl to the floor.
“You better come on out of there.” And then, “Got myself a rifle . . .”
With the back of one sticky hand, Grace first pushes aside the curtains in the back door, and even knowing he won’t be there, she looks for James. There is more shouting, though this time, it isn’t a man’s voice. Grace wipes her hands on her apron as she sidesteps to the kitchen window, picking blobs of dough from between her fingers as she goes. Smoke rolls out of the garage in a thin plume. Now she considers the telephone, but there is no number to call for James. He’ll be out on Woodward or down near the river, hoping not to find a body that has floated to the surface. She throws open the back door.
“It’s us, Mr. Schofield.” Again, a girl’s voice. “It’s only us.”
In the alley near Grace’s garage, Orin Schofield stands, a rifle of some sort braced against his shoulder. The rising smoke has changed from white to black.
“Orin,” Grace shouts. “Put that away.”
Walking in a wide arch that keeps her far from the open garage and clear of Orin’s aim, Grace waves away the smell of the smoke. She used to close the garage door for James every morning. After he’d leave for work, she would finish washing the breakfast dishes and then wander through the backyard, maybe pulling a weed or two, watering her bushes, snapping off her marigolds’ brown, withered blossoms, and eventually close the garage door. She didn’t follow him this morning, might never follow him again.
“Who is it?” Grace shouts into the garage. “Who’s in there?”
The girls appear, one dragging the other by the arm. That’s Izzy in front and Arie trailing behind.
“We didn’t do it,” Izzy says, moving away from the black smoke.
The rising column has thinned. Orange sparks flutter into the air and die out.
“It’s the trash can,” Izzy says. “It’s a fire in the trash can.”
“Orin,” Grace shouts again, waving the girls toward her. “Put that gun away. Girls, here. Come here. Orin, it’s Izzy and Arie.”
Orin stands on the other side of the smoky cloud. He taps the side of the garage with the barrel of his rifle. “Come on out,” he shouts. “Come out of that goddamned garage.”
“Orin, please.” Grace gathers the twins under the maple. She runs her hands over their arms, cups the face of each and scans them for any sign they’ve been hurt. “Stay here,” she says, pushing away Arie’s hand when she tries to grab Grace by the arm.
The crack of the rifle makes Grace stumble. She grabs for the baby. An instinct. Next she reaches for the girls. They run to her, together scooping Grace, one on each side. Another shot. Grace is back on her feet. She corrals the girls, pulls them close. They huddle together under the hard maple, all three inhaling what the others exhale. As the silence widens, Grace straightens to her full height. She brushes back the girls hair, checks them over again. One of the girls, Izzy because Arie wouldn’t be so bold, hugs Grace’s stomach and presses an ear over the baby.
On the other side of the alley, Mr. Williamson stomps out his side door and across his backyard but slows when he sees Orin, a gun to his shoulder, his cheek resting against the wooden handle. Though he no longer has a job to go to, Mr. Williamson dresses every morning in a shirt and tie, belted trousers, and his calfskin wingtips. His silver hair is as thick as the day Grace met him and is smoothed back and held in place by a hair dressing. Probably Top Brass, the same as James uses. Mrs. Williamson follows her husband, but stops near her clothesline. As always, a blue scarf covers her thinning white hair, and the bib apron hanging loosely from her neck has been left untied at the waist. Mr. Williamson stops short of reaching Orin and doesn’t move any closer until the gun’s barrel begins to sink.
“What are you shooting at there, Orin?” Mr. Williamson says.
“Someone’s in there.” Orin waves the gun’s narrow tip at the garage. He stumbles as if he’s dizzy. His eyes settle on Grace and the twins, all three still standing in a cluster, their arms intertwined. His cheeks and nose are red. He brushes away sweat that drips down his temples. “Look at that right there.” He stabs the gun toward the garage, stumbles again. “I told you, didn’t I? Those two started a fire.”
The smoke coming from the garage has thinned to little more than a trickle. Mr. Williamson takes another few steps toward Orin.
“Think whoever stirred up this trouble is long gone by now,” Mr. Williamson says. “How about you let me have that gun of yours?”
“I heard them. Heard them tossing things about.” Orin swings around to face Grace and the twins. The rifle swings around too. “You done this,” he says. “You two girls.”
Izzy starts to say something, but Grace gives her a squeeze, silencing her.
“I seen it with my own eyes,” Orin says, shaking his head as if clearing his thoughts.
“Say, why not let me take a look at this for you,” Mr. Williamson says as he edges up next to Orin, then lays one flat palm on the gun’s barrel and slowly forces it toward the ground. “You know I clean all my own guns.” When the barrel’s tip points directly at the ground, Mr. Williamson eases the gun from Orin. “I’ll give it a good once-over and get it back to you lickety-split. Even bring one of Martha’s cobblers when I return it.”
Orin stares at the gun as it passes into Mr. Williamson’s hands.
When the gun is safely with Mr. Williamson, Izzy shakes loose of Grace and looks her straight in the eye. “We didn’t do anything. We didn’t start that fire. I promise.
Please, you can’t tell Aunt Julia. We didn’t, I promise.”
“You two set that fire at my place. Broke my goddamned windows, too.”
“No, that’s not true,” Izzy says. “None of that’s true. We wanted to hide, that’s all. We saw Mr. Schofield’s chair in the alley and didn’t want him to catch us. Right, Arie? Isn’t that true? Please, Mrs. Richardson. Don’t tell.”
“It’s the coloreds, then,” Orin says, pushing Mr. Williamson aside so he can see down the alley. “Every day, they’re coming through here. Coloreds starting fires and breaking windows.”
Grace grabs one of the twins, takes no time to decide which one. “Did you see them?” she says.
The girl’s eyes shine and she tries to pull away, but Grace squeezes tighter. Arie. The other twin, Izzy, grabs at Grace’s arm to drag her away.
“Did you see those men?” Grace shouts.
With both hands, Izzy pulls at Grace’s arm. “We didn’t see anyone, Mrs. Richardson. We didn’t see anyone and we didn’t start any fire.”
“I suppose it’s best we all calm ourselves,” Mr. Williamson says. “Let’s not look to stir up trouble we don’t need. How about we get you home, Orin?”
“By God, I’m not going anywhere,” Orin says. “My chair. Sit me down right there.”
“Why don’t you ladies go on inside,” Mr. Williamson says. He winks in Grace’s direction and tugs at his tie though it doesn’t need straightening. “I’ll see that the fire is out. Doesn’t appear any harm’s been done.”
Grace loosens her grip on Arie. “I’m so sorry,” she says, rubbing the red spot on Arie’s slender shoulder. “Come, girls.” She wraps an arm around each, nods her thanks to Mr. and Mrs. Williamson, and walks the twins to the side of the house. She’ll take them inside, wash their faces with a cool cloth, call Julia to come fetch them. She should probably feed them something, a peanut-butter sandwich, and give them milk to drink. Someone may call the police. They may come and look inside her garage.