Until She Comes Home

by Lori Roy

  At the end of aisle one, red and green pennants hang overhead, their narrow tips fluttering from the gust of air the men let in, and a large cardboard cutout of a boy wearing a cowboy hat points toward a bin of canned peas and corn. His cheeks and the end of his round nose are red as if he’s had too much sun, and a blue kerchief is tied around his cardboard neck. The same cardboard boy stood over that bin when Izzy and Arie used to come to the store with Aunt Julia. They were younger then and Mrs. Beersdorf would say the cowboy was glad to see the girls and that he had been waiting all year for them to return. Izzy dashes past the display, fearing the boy is watching her and knows exactly what she’s up to.

  Izzy tried to find a can of tuna in Aunt Julia’s cupboards, even mentioned one afternoon that some tuna sure would taste good. Aunt Julia said she had used up the last of it for the men down at the church and she’d put more on her shopping list, but after two trips to Willingham, Aunt Julia still hadn’t brought any home. There was only one way Izzy was going to get tuna.

  She first spotted the cans the last time she and Arie were at Beersdorf’s, shortly before Izzy slipped the stolen pop under her shirt. If they were going to ever find their cat, tuna would be the perfect bait, and finding Patches is about the only way Izzy can think of to get Arie feeling better. For months, Arie worried and fussed about that dog the Russians shot up into space. She would stare into a black sky, hoping she might see that spaceship with the dog inside, as if her seeing it would have meant that dog was safe. About the time Arie stopped looking for that dog, their cat disappeared and then Arie started being afraid of the alley and just about everything else, it seemed. If it’s not one thing with Arie, it’s another.

  Keeping her head down, Izzy passes behind the little girl and the woman sorting through the tomatoes, continues to the far end of the aisle, and squats to the lowest shelf. Checking both ways to make sure Mr. Beersdorf hasn’t appeared, she palms a can of tuna and tucks it into her elastic waistband. Behind her, the little girl lets out a squeal.

  “Hush up,” the girl’s mother says, rolling another tomato from side to side as she inspects it. “Mind yourself.”

  Izzy twists up her face the same way Arie does when she’s angry and points it at the girl, who promptly wraps both arms around her mother’s wide legs and hides her face in her mother’s thighs. With the girl no longer watching, Izzy stands slowly so the tuna won’t break free of her waistband. Half a dozen long strides will take her to the end of the aisle and back to the front of the store. When Izzy reaches her full height, the can tucked securely in place, the little Negro girl peeks out from behind her mother’s thighs. Izzy holds a finger to her lips. The little girl lets go of her mother’s legs, jumps into the center of the aisle, and shapes her face into the same scowl Izzy made. Two pigtails stick out from the girl’s head like fuzzy black handles. She jumps up and down and tugs at her mother’s blouse. Looking first at Izzy and then down at her daughter, the mother sets aside her tomato and reaches out to scoop up the girl, but she bounces out of reach and begins flapping her arms and pointing at Izzy.

  “Stealer, stealer,” the girl chants. “Stealer, stealer.”

  The mother fends off the small flailing arms and manages to wrap one hand around the girl’s shoulder. In the wake of the flapping and floundering, a few tomatoes tumble out of the display case. Izzy dashes toward the cardboard cowboy at the end of the aisle. The girl squeals and yanks away from her mother. As the woman lunges for her daughter, managing only to grab the girl’s small wrist, her foot lands in the center of a fallen tomato. The woman slips, losing her grip on the girl, and the girl flies across the aisle and into Izzy’s path.

  Throwing out both hands like she does when she flies over her bike’s handlebars, Izzy sails past the little girl and falls face-first toward the checkered floor. The can of tuna breaks loose of her elastic waistband, drops out the leg of her shorts, bounces up, and hits the little girl in the head. The can continues to bounce across the black-and-gray tile and comes to rest a few feet beyond Izzy’s reach.

  “Hey there,” Mr. Beersdorf shouts.

  At the end of the aisle, Mr. Beersdorf appears. He stops under the pennants that now hang motionless. To the left of him stands the cardboard cutout, but from where she lies, facedown, Izzy can see only the boy’s brown paper backing and the wooden slats that hold him in place.

  “What’s happening here?” Mr. Beersdorf says. “You there.” He points down at Izzy. “What’s your name? Do I know your parents?”

  Izzy scrambles to her knees. Behind her, the little girl is crying and the mother is trying to pick her up.

  “You’ll pay for that produce,” Mr. Beersdorf shouts, jabbing a finger at the woman struggling with her crying child.

  On hands and knees, Izzy snatches up the can, jumps to her feet, darts between Mr. Beersdorf and the cardboard cowboy, and runs toward the door.

  “Stop there,” Mr. Beersdorf shouts over the screaming little girl. “Bring back that can.”

  At the front of the store, the colored man who waited while the other two walked into the shop pushes open the door and ushers Izzy outside with a one-handed sweeping gesture. “That’s twice I saved you, huh?” he says as she runs past. He smiles down on Izzy, his teeth bright and white against his warm, brown skin. He has soft, lazy eyes like Uncle Bill and stands with a strong, straight back. Izzy smiles, though she isn’t sure what the man means to say, and holding the tuna in one hand she runs out of the store and through the empty parking lot. Knowing Mr. Beersdorf won’t follow her because he’ll be too worried about all those Negroes, Izzy slows to a walk when she reaches the street, tosses the can into the air, and catches it. Tosses it and catches it.

  “I’m guessing your aunt doesn’t know you’re out and about, does she? And I’m guessing you didn’t buy that can of tuna.”

  Izzy wraps both hands around the small can, hiding it as best she can. Three men walk toward her. Two carry long sticks meant for poking through bushes. The men wear hats, white cotton work shirts rolled up at the sleeves, faded blue pants that have no crease, and black boots. They stand on either side of the third man. Izzy knows the third man. Just as she thought, Mr. Herze carries the clipboard.

  • • •

  The ladies have set up fewer tables at the church today than they did a few days ago. Fewer and fewer men are joining in the search. Some say they are troubled by taking charity from the men who work double shifts. Today is payday, the start of a new pay period. It’s time they get back to work. Others say now that a man has been arrested, there’s no need to continue looking. That Negro will talk soon enough, the men say. Give the police some time. That Negro’ll talk.

  It had been nearly noon when Malina finally woke, and Mr. Herze had already left for the day. His cologne no longer lingered and the air in the hallway was cool and dry, no leftover steam from the hot water he would have run to bathe himself before leaving. The pills had worked. He never tried to wake her. But they also muddied Malina’s thoughts and caused her to sleep late. Once out of bed, she had slipped on the first wrinkle-resistant dress she came across in her closet, and on her way out of the house she fished her yellow rubber gloves from beneath the sink, and once through the back door she shook the cornstarch from them. Across the street and a few doors down, a moving truck was parked outside Betty Lawson’s house. Yes, it was a moving truck. That was Jerry Lawson holding open his front door as two Negro men carried a blue tweed sofa from the house. Soon enough, one of Malina’s troubles would be gone. Mr. Herze would never again sit at the Lawsons’ kitchen table and listen to a police officer call Malina a liar, because the Lawsons would no longer live on Alder Avenue.

  At the bottom of the stairs leading into the church basement, Malina bids hello to Sara Washburn, coordinator for today’s luncheon. With a clipboard in hand, Sara checks off Malina’s name and makes note of the stuffed-pepper meatloaf Malina has brought and smiles because she has remembered to do exactly as Malina instructed. Sara�
��s brown hair flips up in tight curls that ride just above her shoulders and the plaid dress she wears is too heavy for such a warm day. Malina gives Sara a wink and a pat on the shoulder, not because Malina is fond of the woman, but because the relief of having seen the moving van outside the Lawsons’ house has lifted her spirits. She might even call herself giddy. Setting her casserole with the other homemade dishes, she trails a finger along the table and inspects what all the other ladies have brought. Card tables have been set up and covered with linens, place settings have been put out, and the coffee bubbles up at a small table near the back of the room. Behind the table stands Julia Wagner.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here,” Malina says. “I rather thought you’d be home with the twins.”

  Julia glances up from a sheet of limp paper she holds in her hands. Because of the small dark print and thin worn edges, it’s probably something cut from a newspaper. She smiles but says nothing.

  “I see you brought your banana bread,” Malina says, drawing a cup of coffee from one of the percolators. “Mr. Herze does love it so. You should think about bringing it to the bake sale this year.”

  A pale yellow scarf is tied over Julia’s hair, which has yet to see a brush today, and as is usually the case, her blouse is too snug through the chest. The strain has caused a gap to open up between two buttons—a gap Julia has tried to remedy with a safety pin.

  “Pardon?” Julia says, folding the paper and setting it on the table. She looks about the room as if she’s forgotten where she is.

  “The bake sale,” Malina says. “I should think your banana bread would prove quite popular.”

  “No,” Julia says. “What did you say about the girls?”

  “Nothing,” Malina says. “But I did see them out and about today before I left the house, or I should say I saw one of them. I guess I assumed you were home. I didn’t expect to find you here.”

  “You saw the girls outside?”

  Malina nods and tries not to stare at the pin woven into Julia’s blouse. Each time she inhales, that silver prong catches the overhead light and sparkles.

  “Only one of them,” Malina says. “She was walking down the street. Not causing any trouble, though I do suspect they are the culprits who have trampled my flowers on occasion.”

  “Would you mind the coffee?” Julia asks, slipping from behind the table. “I think I’d better run home.”

  At the bottom of the stairs leading into the dining hall, one of the husbands appears, his hat in hand, fingering the brim as he stretches his neck to scan the room. “Doris,” he calls out, brushing aside the ladies who approach him. “Where’s my Doris?”

  “Very well,” Malina says, taking Julia’s place behind the table while keeping watch over the commotion going on across the room. Not even this extra duty will dampen Malina’s mood. Julia has always been an odd sort of neighbor, and Malina’s found it difficult to converse with her ever since her baby died. It’s such a lot of sadness to contend with. “Don’t forget this.” Malina picks up the tattered, worn slip of paper and stretches across the table to hand it to Julia.

  Julia takes the clipping between two fingers and opens it.

  “Did you ever consider this?” she says, lifting the article and pressing it toward Malina for a closer look.

  “What ever do you mean?”

  The ladies continue to congregate near the stairwell. “I’m here.” It’s Doris Taylor’s voice, rising above the rest. “My goodness, I’m right here.”

  “A place like this,” Julia says, paying the ladies no mind. “The Willows. Have you heard of it?”

  Malina walks from behind the table, crosses her arms, and leans forward so she can see what Julia holds in her hands. “What on earth? I haven’t the faintest notion what this is. The twins, Julia. You’re supposed to be tending to the twins.”

  “You and Warren, you’ve never had children. You must have considered it. Adoption. Did you ever consider adoption?”

  “I am quite sure that is none of your business, Julia Wagner.”

  “Let us pass.” It’s Doris’s husband. “Step away, all of you. Let us pass.”

  All around the room, the ladies begin scurrying about, collecting their bags and wraps. Some of them fuss with their casseroles and cover them with foil while others gather the plates, saucers, and flatware and stack them on the back credenza. Still others rip linens from the tables and stuff them in cloth laundry bags.

  “How dare you broach such a personal question?” Malina says. “You should concern yourself with those girls and stop all this foolishness.”

  “You think I don’t concern myself with the girls?” Julia says.

  Julia’s perfume, something cheap and sweet, snags in Malina’s throat. She coughs into her fist. Julia throws back her shoulders, lifts her chin, and the gap in her blouse widens, straining the safety pin’s thin-coiled wire.

  “I think adoption is a private thing not to be discussed in this manner, and you should concern yourself with the two children you already have.” Malina clears her throat as much to give herself time to think as to soothe the irritation from Julia’s perfume. “I think maybe you’re not well. It’s no wonder. What with all the stress of Elizabeth disappearing, I can’t imagine the guilt you’re feeling. I only meant to suggest you bring your banana bread to the sale. You’re such a fine cook. Nothing more. Really, nothing more.”

  “Ladies, ladies, you two hurry along.” It’s Sara Washburn, calling out from across the room. When Julia and Malina make no move to leave, Sara walks toward them, a white cotton sweater slung over one arm and both hands wrapped around her clipboard. “Leave these things,” she says. “Switch off that coffee and go home.”

  “You think I can’t care for Izzy and Arie?” Julia says, ignoring Sara.

  “I said no such thing.” Malina pauses, reaches out to touch Julia’s arm.

  Julia jerks away, nearly stumbling. “It’s what you all think, isn’t it? That I’m unfit.”

  “Ladies,” Sara says, clutching the clipboard to her chest as if to protect herself. “Leave this to another time. I’d like to lock up.”

  “Please, Julia. I said nothing about you being unfit. For goodness sake, what has gotten into you? The girls stay only a few weeks. How much trouble could they or you possibly get into? They really are of no concern to me.”

  “Ladies, let’s move along,” Sara says.

  “And what if they were to stay? Would you worry then? Am I only fit to care for them a few weeks at a time?”

  “Is that true?” Malina says, her giddy mood slipping away. Looking from Sara Washburn in her bold plaid dress to Julia, who is bursting through her white cotton blouse, Malina tries to draw in another deep breath to clear her head, but the air is too heavy with Julia’s perfume. “They’ll stay on? The girls will stay?”

  “Ladies,” Sara shouts.

  Julia drops the tattered sheet of paper on the table. Her round, full chest rises and falls. More of her red hair has pulled loose of the scarf that held it from her face, and wiry strands stick out from her head. Both she and Malina turn to Sara.

  “It’s Elizabeth,” Sara says, her shoulders sinking. “They’ve found her. They’ve found our Elizabeth. Please, it’s time to go home.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Grace agrees with Mrs. Nowack when she suggests it might be best that Grace go straight home, and after the fifth police car has raced past the bakery and turned toward the river, she boards the bus that will carry her back to Alder Avenue. But rather than stopping at her own house, she walks directly to Mr. Symanski’s, opens the iron gate, climbs the three stairs leading onto his porch, and knocks lightly. The door opens. Mr. Symanski wears a wrinkled shirt and a tie that falls too short. His pants hang loose on his waist and bag at his ankles. A pair of men’s shoes cut from soft kidskin leather sit to the side of the door. The tip of his big toe pokes through a small hole in his right sock.

  “I thought to check on you,” Grace says.
“I was down on Willingham. . . .”

  She lets her words trail off into silence, afraid to mention the many police cars and blaring sirens. Tugging off her white gloves one finger at a time, she checks the street for any sign of an officer who might be coming to deliver bad news.

  Mr. Symanski blinks twice and squints again, as if not certain who Grace is, and then he smiles. “Come in,” he says. “Before the heat is getting you.”

  Outside Mr. Symanski’s, tufts of crabgrass have grown up through the cracks in the sidewalk. The yard has become shabby in the short time since Elizabeth disappeared. It must have started when Ewa died, the slow, steady falling apart, but Grace hadn’t noticed until now.

  In the living room, Grace tucks her gloves into her handbag. The air is heavy and stale, making it difficult to breathe. So often in the days since Elizabeth disappeared, it’s been difficult for Grace to breathe.

  “The baby is well?” Mr. Symanski says.

  Grace nods and pushes aside the heavy drapes in the front room. Light spills into the house, and the dust in the air sparkles. Across the street, the Filmore Apartments are quiet. They’re always quiet. In the evenings, when the people come home from work, they must park their cars and disappear inside straightaway. Everyone says some of the families living there are Negroes, but Grace has never seen them coming or going through the glass doors. She’s only seen the men who roam the alley and now the street. The one who came for her hasn’t been among them since the night of the attack. Grace excuses herself and, in the kitchen, pulls a bottle of diluted vinegar from under the sink, grabs a few pages from yesterday’s newspaper, and walks back to the living room.

  “The police came to see you?” Mr. Symanski says.

  “They did.” She sets aside the bottle so she can use both hands to wad up the newspaper.

  A half dozen times since the officers questioned James and Grace, their patrol car has rolled down Alder Avenue. Each time, the car drove slowly as it crept past her house, giving her a chance to rush outside and admit to them she lied. They could find Elizabeth if only Grace would tell the truth.