Until She Comes Home

by Lori Roy

  “She wasn’t wearing those sneakers,” Grace says.

  James pushes the door closed. “Who?”

  “She was tapping,” Grace says, pointing at James’s black steel-toed boots. “Like you are now. Tapping because she wore her black leather shoes. Elizabeth always wore them with her lavender dress, with any of her nicer dresses. That wasn’t her shoe they found.”

  “It’s something,” James says. “We’ll tell them, tell the police. But I don’t think they ever made much of a single shoe. It could have belonged to anyone.”

  “I don’t think Elizabeth wandered away, James,” Grace says. “I think something bad, very bad, happened to her. I think she’ll never come home.”

  “Don’t you worry,” James says. “We’ll find her. You trust me, don’t you?”

  “Most definitely,” she says, sliding a foot to the right so the light shining through the front window catches her hair. If it glows and her lips shine, James will feel better.

  Because he’s so very glad Grace is unharmed, James smiles. The whole drive home he probably imagined what his life would be like without Grace and his baby. The thought surely frightened him, but seeing Grace now, he is reassured life works out for the best. Mother is right. James doesn’t want to hear the truth and Grace can never tell.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The moment the twins have left the house and Bill has closed the front door behind them, Julia kicks off her shoes, hikes her skirt over her knees, and runs up the steps two at a time, not caring that she’ll snag her nylons. Once upstairs, she throws open the girls’ bedroom door, yanks Arie’s suitcase from under her bed, and flings it into the center of her mattress.

  “Don’t say a word,” she says when Bill enters the room. She pulls open the dresser’s top drawer, scoops an armful of undergarments and socks and flings them into the open suitcase. “They’re going back to my mother’s.”

  Bill moves in front of the dresser, not allowing Julia to open the next drawer. “Your mother is not there, remember?”

  Dropping one shoulder, Julia rams it into Bill’s side, trying to move him. He crosses his arms. “I’m not budging, and the girls are not leaving,” he says, and once Julia begins to simmer down, he rests his hands on her shoulders.

  “Can you imagine what might have happened?” Julia says. Edging away from Bill, she flips the suitcase closed and drops onto the bed. Her skirt hugs her thighs well above her knees from her trek up the stairs. She tugs and wiggles until she has yanked it back into place. “Who on God’s green earth fires a rifle at two young girls?”

  “You know he wasn’t firing at them.” Bill sits next to Julia but not so close as to let their legs touch. He always knows when best to keep his distance.

  “I know no such thing,” Julia says. “You didn’t hear him caterwauling the other day.”

  “I’ll speak to the girls,” Bill says, patting Julia’s hand. “We should make sure they keep clear of Orin for a while. But I’d guess the fright they got will do the best job of keeping them close to home.”

  Julia slides off the bed, drops to her knees in front of Bill, and takes his hands in hers. “That’s not enough,” she says. “They’re going to be our responsibility one day. You know they’re getting to be too much for my mother. If not now, then soon enough.”

  “Yes,” Bill says. “And I’ll be happy to have them.”

  “We need to move,” she says. “Right now. Sell this house and move. Our own neighbors are firing on us.”

  Bill shakes his head. “You’re overreacting.”

  “Why shouldn’t we move?” Julia lifts up and rests her hands on Bill’s chest. “We’ll never be comfortable having a family here. And what about a baby? I know you wouldn’t want to bring a baby into this neighborhood. It’s not the same as it used to be. Even after Elizabeth finds her way back . . .”

  “This is no time to think about a baby.”

  “It’s the perfect time,” Julia says “Our baby and Grace’s, growing up together. Perfect. No matter where we live, it’ll be wonderful. We could adopt like Jerry and Betty. She’s not admitting it, but I know that’s what they did. We could go to Kansas City. The train, it’ll take us straight into Union Station. You were a good father to Maryanne. Why don’t you want that again? Did you not love her?”

  “What did you say to me?”

  Bill doesn’t make a motion toward her, doesn’t lift a hand or make a fist, but something in the room shifts and it feels as if he wants to slap her.

  “There has to be some reason,” Julia says, leaning back and resting on her knees again. “Is that it? Did you not love Maryanne?”

  “You think I didn’t love our daughter?”

  “Is it me? Do you think I wouldn’t be a good mother? Do you think I’m to blame for what’s happened to Elizabeth too? That I’m unfit?”

  “I think Elizabeth Symanski won’t ever come home,” he says. “Everybody knows it and nobody’s saying it. I’ve been up and down Woodward, me and others, more times than I can count. We’ve been through every neighborhood within five miles. We’ve talked to every employee in every store, in every restaurant, in every bar. We’ve been through every park and talked to every neighbor. We’ve asked them all, Julia, and not a single person remembers seeing her that day.”

  “Stop,” Julia says. “You stop saying that.”

  “You know how Elizabeth walks. She’d run into folks, people would notice. But no one, Julia. No one even thought they might have seen her. We have list after list of every person we’ve talked to. And not a single one. She didn’t wander away. She didn’t walk down the streets on her own. Someone took her, Julia. Took her away, and that’s why no one has seen her. Probably swept her up in a car and drove off. If not right here on Alder, then somewhere close. If she’d have wandered off like before, someone would have seen her. Someone would remember. But one thing’s for damned sure. Bringing a baby into this house won’t bring her back.”

  “Of course she’ll come home. She’ll find her way. You’ll keep looking and you’ll find her.”

  Bill shakes his head. “She’s gone, Julia. And I hate to think what became of her.”

  “Don’t you say that. Don’t you dare say that.”

  “Nobody is blaming you, Julia. You’re doing that to yourself. But now is the time to be thinking about the girls. Time we think about keeping them safe.”

  “And you think I don’t want that?”

  “They’re most important now. Those girls and you too.” Bill pushes away Julia’s hands and stands. “It’s no time to think about bringing a baby into this house. Not my own, and damned sure not one born of another man.”

  • • •

  Malina waves a hand overhead and walks toward Mr. Herze’s car as he climbs inside. Across the street, the twins are backing up the sidewalk leading to Julia’s porch. It doesn’t seem possible that, even from this distance, Malina can smell Mr. Herze’s girl. The odor must have leaked from inside his car when he opened the door. Whether or not it’s Malina’s imagination, eventually the smell will come home again with Mr. Herze because his girl is not the dead one.

  “Won’t you come inside for a bite to eat?” she calls out yet again.

  Mr. Herze’s large blue sedan backs down the driveway and into the street. One long arm reaches out the driver’s-side window and waves at the girls. Malina steps over her hedge of snapdragons, all of them wilting with the heavy watering she gave them this morning. She teeters on one heel, nearly twisting an ankle before she marches off the curb and into the street.

  “Hurry home,” she shouts. “I’m planning a lovely roast tonight. Hurry home.”

  Standing in the middle of the street, Mr. Herze’s sedan having reached the end of Alder Avenue, where it will idle at the stop sign before turning right, Malina stares at Julia’s house and at the twins standing in the front yard. Such a thin line between girls and young women. Malina has seen it before, the subtle pleasantries that morph so slowly into s
omething else that others don’t recognize it, won’t recognize it. They think Mr. Herze is a kind man, giving, thoughtful—charming, even. The other girls, women, didn’t have the twins’ good fortune. These girls will leave in a few short weeks, possibly sooner. By now, they’ve already been here several days. Soon they’ll be gone. It’s nothing to worry about.

  “You girls,” Malina shouts.

  Together, the girls look Malina’s way.

  “Do you see these flowers?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” they say together, one speaking over the other.

  “I have to plant more. Several dozen more. And do you two know why I must plant more?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” one of the twins says. “Aunt Julia told us someone peed on your flowers.”

  “Watch your tongue, young lady. And these are snapdragons, not just any old flowers.”

  “Sorry. Aunt Julia told us someone peed on your snapdragons.”

  “And you’ve trampled them too.”

  “No, ma’am.” It’s the one who’s fresh most days, not as polite as the other one. “We didn’t do either. You can’t blame us for that.”

  Malina squints to get a good look at them. She doubles up both fists, plants them at her waist, and leans forward so the girls will know she’s quite serious. “See to it you stay away from my flowers,” she says. “Do you understand? Stay away from my yard.” The girls nod and have the good sense to say nothing more. And then, because it certainly couldn’t hurt, she says, “And stay away from Mr. Herze.”

  The girls nod and one drags the other onto the porch. “Yes, ma’am,” one of them says while the other pulls open the screen door.

  “Hold on there,” Malina says. “Did you two see those men here at my house?”

  One of the girls drops the screen door, letting it slam shut, and they both nod.

  “That’s none of your business,” Malina says. “Do you understand me? They were here mistakenly. Don’t you go spreading rumors. Do you understand?”

  Another nod and the girls run inside, again letting the screen slap shut.

  After returning from her morning shopping on Willingham Avenue, Malina had unpacked her groceries and set to work on her carrot cakes. Because the bake sale was postponed, she had time for more baking, but really, it’s the icing that takes so long. Her carrot cakes always bring a hefty price and people expect a lovely scalloped edge when they are paying good money. She was in the middle of grating her third carrot when she heard a knock at the front door.

  “How may I help you?” Malina had said, brushing her hands together. A few orange carrot slivers fluttered to the ground.

  Two men, each wearing a dark gray suit and a necktie that was entirely too wide, stood on the porch. At the sight of Malina, they removed their hats. Both were rather short, and if it weren’t for their handsome dark suits, a person might have considered them scrawny.

  “Detective Warren,” the fair-haired officer said, and dipped his chin. Perspiration stained the tips of his yellow hair. He tossed his head in the direction of the taller man standing next to him. “And this is Detective Burrows. Like to ask a few questions, ma’am.”

  “Certainly,” she said. “Though I don’t know how much more I can tell you. The other officers, the dark-haired officers, I told them all that I know.” Pulling a handkerchief from her skirt pocket, Malina tapped it to her chest and neck. The bodice was a rather snug fit, but it did create a lovely silhouette. “Not that I knew much, mind you. My husband knows Charles, Mr. Symanski, much better than I. They worked together, you know, before Charles retired. I was a new bride then.” She smiled and winked at the man with the silky blond hair. “It’s been more than twenty-five years. I married quite young.”

  The eyes of the sweet blond detective followed the tissue as Malina tapped it against her moist skin.

  “And what of the Lawsons?” the taller officer said. His hair was an ordinary brown color, straight and cropped in a harsh line that fell just above his eyes.

  “The Lawsons?” Malina said, tucking her chin.

  “Yes, ma’am. On the evening of June fourth, a Wednesday evening, Mr. Lawson reports that he saw you on the street, rather late at night. And that you saw him, as well. Do you recall that evening?”

  “Well, that’s ridiculous. Why on earth would I be out late at night? That’s simply not true.”

  The ordinary detective placed his hat on his head and tugged it low. “So you weren’t driving toward Woodward between ten thirty and eleven o’clock on the evening of June fourth?”

  “I don’t drive at night. The glare, it troubles me. It has for years.”

  “He is out often, we understand, this Mr. Lawson,” the yellow-haired officer said. “Other neighbors have reported that he is often on the street late at night, keeping watch while his wife walks their child.”

  “The baby only recently came to live with them,” Malina said. And then she whispered, “Adopted.”

  “And in the time since the baby’s arrival, you have known Mrs. Lawson to walk the child at night and Mr. Lawson to watch over from the end of his drive?” The yellow-haired detective pointed across the street toward the end of the Lawsons’ driveway. “From there?”

  “I’m sure I wouldn’t know the first thing about the nightly routines of the Lawsons.”

  “It’s odd, don’t you think?” the yellow-haired officer said, speaking more to his partner than to Malina.

  “What’s that?”

  The yellow-haired officer tilted his head to one side and studied the front of the Lawsons’ house. “Why do you suppose Mr. Lawson doesn’t walk along?” he said. “With his wife? Why not join her? If his intent is to ensure her and the child’s safety, why not walk along?”

  Malina laughed. “I’ve an easy answer for that. He is never dressed in more than shorts and an undershirt. I’m quite certain the neighborhood wouldn’t stand for his gallivanting around in such attire. He’s really quite ridiculous.”

  “So you have seen him?” the ordinary detective said. “Mr. Lawson on the street? Wearing his ridiculous shorts and undershirt?”

  Malina pinched her brow before realizing the unsightly creases she was causing. “I don’t know what you expect me to say.”

  “We don’t expect anything, ma’am. But think for a moment. You may have seen him but are not certain of the date. Is that possible?”

  “As I said before, I don’t drive after dark. It’s the glare.”

  The man with the ordinary brown hair closed his notebook and slid his pencil in a front pocket. “Thank you for your time, ma’am.”

  “That’s all?” Malina said. “Aren’t you here about Elizabeth Symanski? Are you doing nothing to find the child?”

  At the bottom of the stairs, the ordinary detective said, “There are many fine officers working to find Miss Symanski.”

  “Do you mean to question me about that Negro woman, the one who was killed? That happened on a Wednesday night. Is that what you mean to question me about?”

  “Thank you for your time, ma’am,” the sweet detective said, and removed his hat again.

  “You understand, don’t you?” Malina called out again as the officers neared their car.

  Leaning over the porch railing, Malina lifted one foot off the ground and pointed her toe to create a lovely, long line so they’d remember her kindly.

  “I don’t drive at night. I can’t, you see.”

  The car began to back out of the driveway.

  “It’s the glare. I didn’t see Jerry Lawson that night or any other.”

  The officer who was driving rolled the steering wheel one direction and then the other.

  “You’ll not say otherwise, will you? You’ll not tell my husband I was out that evening? He’ll be terribly upset if you tell him such a thing.”

  And then the car was gone and Malina whispered.

  “He’ll be terribly upset if you tell him I’ve lied.”

  Day 5

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN


  The next morning, Grace stays home, keeping herself busy in the kitchen as the other ladies travel to Willingham to do their shopping. While the quiet of an empty house gives her too much time to think, it’s easier to tolerate than the fear of boarding the morning bus and sitting next to one of the ladies, most likely Julia. As she scrubs her sink and cleans out her nearly empty refrigerator, Grace listens for the twins. The other children in the neighborhood are too old to run through the back alley or play in the front yards. They are teenagers with cars and jobs, too old to be shooed off the street by the likes of Grace. When ten o’clock draws near, she hears the squeal of a rusted chair being unfolded in the alley, but no sign of the girls. Perhaps the threat of Orin Schofield scared them inside, or perhaps it’s the heavy drizzle after so many dry, hot days that has kept them behind closed doors. By the time Grace combs out her hair, dresses for the day, and boards the midday bus bound for Willingham, Julia will have finished her shopping and returned home. It’s the best Grace can do to keep the girls safe.

  No ladies rode the bus at the later hour, and on Willingham, none scurry from store to store. They will be at the church, where they’ll stay all afternoon and evening, ignoring the shifts Malina assigned. And so Willingham Avenue is quiet except for the sounds of the factory—the pounding and drumming as the men stamp out the parts, metal on metal, and sharp edges being rounded off and made smooth. The gray sky hangs low, and rain drips off Grace’s pillbox hat and down her cheeks and nose.

  “You are being soaked to the bone,” Mrs. Nowack says when Grace walks through the bakery’s door. As she normally does, Mrs. Nowack wears a full gray skirt that skims the floor and a bib apron tied around her thick waist. She squints at Grace through small, round glasses and frowns, which causes her wrinkled cheeks to plump up and her thin lips to draw in on themselves. “Come, child, get out of that weather.”