by Lori Roy
It will be payday again. Eventually. It comes quicker than any other day. Even before Mr. Herze comes home, Malina can smell it. She smells it every day now, so maybe payday doesn’t matter anymore. That sweet musky smell will stick to Mr. Herze’s collar. She’ll fill the kitchen sink and soak the shirt overnight. A year of paydays has passed since she first smelled it. She didn’t know what it was in those early days. Only that it was a sour, unforgiving smell that seeped into her house and she could never quite scrub it away.
She squeezes the white bag and icing drips onto the cake. Too warm. A scallop won’t hold its shape if the icing is too warm. The consistency is so important, the most important thing, really. Not quite as stiff as the icing she uses to sculpt leaves and rose petals, but thicker and drier than what she uses to ice the top and sides. Hold the bag horizontal to the cake. Give it one short burst of pressure to lay down the wide end of the shell, then let up. Slowly draw the tip forward and tap it to the cake to cut off the flow. A single perfect scallop. She had thought the weather was cool enough, but the house is too warm. She should have opened more windows. Her scallop droops and melts over the edge. She straightens the bag and begins again.
Another cake is done. It’s all Malina can do today. The bake sale would normally have taken place in a few short weeks but they changed the date because Elizabeth Symanski disappeared and now they know she is dead. Now the cakes will have to set another few weeks. Shame Malina didn’t think of that earlier.
Malina lays the icing bag on the table, unties the apron from around her waist, wipes her fingers on it, and tosses it on the dining room table. In the foyer, she slips off her sensible two-inch heels and steps into the white stilettos with the slender toes. They are more suited to the red-and-white dress she wears. Admiring the curve of her delicate ankle, she rolls her foot in a slow circle. First one and then the other. Her calves, so perfectly formed, haven’t changed in all these years. So lovely. Taking a deep breath that makes her chest lift up and her lungs fill, she grabs the ribbon that flows down her back and walks toward the side door.
Eventually the child will outgrow that carriage. Eventually it will walk down Willingham, doughy and soft like Mr. Herze. It will be a creamy brown color and will tuck its small fist in its mother’s dark-brown hand. Eventually it will be tall and walk with a gait like Mr. Herze, shoulders rounded, hump at the base of its neck, always seeming tired, worn-out. Eventually everyone will know.
Eventually, someone will begin to suspect Mr. Herze killed that woman. They’ll discover that the woman, before she died, spoke poorly of the child in the carriage, and Mr. Herze, like any man, would protect his own. It’s the only reason a good man would kill. But then, someone, eventually everyone, will tap their heads and purse their lips and think a wife would do the same. Mistakenly, accidentally, she would do the same. She would lash out with the only thing she had in hand if suddenly she realized her husband was father to another woman’s baby. And lastly, they’ll realize as they should have in the first place, that it was the mother. Wouldn’t the mother—the girl—kill to protect her child? Wouldn’t that be most likely of all? And the man who loves the mother—the girl—would protect her because he is good. He would bring home the hammer that did the killing and put it back as if that night, that terrible night, never happened.
A man who would do these things doesn’t covet the baby’s mother because she is thin and slight. He protects her and so he must love her. Nor does he covet the twins across the street who skip through sprinklers and trample lovely snapdragons. He watches those twins with a longing, missing the children he could never have with his wife. He watches those twins and imagines the day his child by another woman does the running and skipping and laughing. He loves the baby and he loves its mother. Eventually, someone, everyone, will know.
Within hours, the men will end their search, if not because the twins are found, then because they must rest and prepare to begin again tomorrow, and Mr. Herze will come home. The police will realize Mr. Herze and Malina saw the twins last. If Malina is wrong, and Mr. Herze looks upon the twins with a foul sort of longing, the police will discover it. They will wonder why Mr. Herze would make a gift of those flyers and they’ll discover the truth. Surely the police will discover it. If they don’t, Mr. Herze will in due course remarry. This new wife won’t tolerate a house tainted by Malina. This new wife will be thin and slight and she’ll insist they move north, where the yards stretch out and the homes are newly built. The twins will be safe because Malina is gone.
Letting the screen door slam shut behind her, Malina crosses the drive and walks into the garage, where she makes her way through the bags and boxes, sidestepping them, trying not to damage the dangling hems and cuffs. The last of the clothes are ready to be delivered to the thrift store. Clean and folded, properly mended. Someone will see to them. The key to Mr. Herze’s storage cabinet hangs on the pegboard inside a carefully drawn line right next to the hammer. Both of them, a perfect fit. Outside, voices shout—Izzy, Arie and Isabelle, Arabelle. Engines rattle to a start, screen doors slam shut, dogs bark at strangers in their yards. Surely, someone will see to all these clothes.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
James tried a few times to teach Grace. When they were first married, she practiced in the parking lot at St. Alban’s on a Saturday afternoon. He had placed her hands on the steering wheel and kept one of his own on it to guide her. “Like this,” he had said. The car sprung forward when Grace jammed her foot into the gas pedal. And when she pressed too hard on the brake, James fell, both hands reaching for the dash. He laughed, pulled Grace to him, and kissed her hard on the mouth. “Eyes forward and straight ahead.”
Father never taught Grace to drive because he died before she was old enough to learn. Several summers passed before she and Mother boarded the Ste. Claire again. Mother taught herself to drive during those years after Father died and took a job as a receptionist for Ford. In the summer of 1946, she pulled on a linen jacket and her best Sunday hat and said it was time to get on with it.
Grace had no urge to run ahead of the crowd that year and felt no tingle when her feet hit the wooden gangplank. She was one of the ladies now, tall as any other. Her waist was narrow, her neck slender, her frame strong and straight. As it had been every other year, she heard him before she saw him. The musicians paused and there was that burst of laughter. When the music began again, he spun past, another girl whose hair color Grace doesn’t remember in his arms. He had thinned out during his years away. Many of the men had that look, as if they had been forced to go without. He had noticed her and smiled. He remembers this smile but says it wasn’t the first. He says the first was when Grace was a child. That’s romance talking, not reason.
First she lowers the gearshift into reverse. Then she taps on the gas. The car lunges backward. Again, another tap. It rolls and jumps past the sidewalk and bounces off the edge of the curb. In the middle of the street, Grace pulls the gearshift down, and with her eyes forward and straight ahead, she rolls the steering wheel, one hand over the other like she has seen James do so many times.
The one won’t move out of the way. Grace knows this. Because she didn’t tell the police. Because he knows her as he does. Because he took Elizabeth and now the twins. Because she wouldn’t let Orin fire. Because he feels he belongs, the one won’t move. The others will, and they do. As Grace starts down Alder Avenue, stomping on the gas so the car gains speed, the other two scatter. One of them is probably the kinder man with the tired eyes. One dives to the left, one to the right, where Mr. Symanski stands. Only one stays his course, not moving from the middle of the road. He’s daring her, wanting to make a fool of her, wanting to prove she can’t change what has happened and that some part of him will always live inside her. She jams her toe to the floorboard. Had James been in the seat next to her, he would have braced himself. There is a loud thump. The silhouette flies up and away. It’s gone.
The car is still now. Inside, the air is w
arm and thin as if she has used it all up and there is nothing left. The only voices are muted but slowly they become louder. There is yelling, screaming. She lies across the seat, one hand on her baby, waiting. She closes her eyes.
• • •
One of the officers stares down on Julia, his shoulders square, his black shoes planted wide. Another stands behind her, a hand on her chair as if afraid she might try to run from the house. He has written down the name Maryanne in his small notebook. A third stands in the front room, occasionally speaking into a radio that crackles and hums. Grace must have closed the door as she left, because a burst of air blows through the house and out the kitchen window when someone opens it again. Small feet run across the linoleum entry into the kitchen. Julia lifts her head. The twins rush in, bringing with them the smell of outside—sweat-stained shirts, dirt under their nails, unwashed hair. They run to Julia, throwing their slender arms around her neck, smothering her with their warm bodies.
“Aunt Julia.”
She can’t tell which one is which because they’ve buried their faces in her hair. She wraps an arm around each. Bill stands behind them. He wears a white shirt buttoned at the collar and cuffs. He waits there, making sure they are well and then turns to leave.
“What did you do?” Julia says, the girls’ slender bodies pressed to her cheeks, one on either side.
An officer holds out a hand, signaling Julia should stay in her seat and Bill should not move.
“What did you do to them?” she says again.
The two girls back away from Julia. “He found us, Aunt Julia. Don’t be angry.”
“Your mother’s place,” Bill says, and then he faces the officer, talking to him and not Julia. “Few miles north on Woodward and east a couple blocks.”
“You’re lying,” Julia says, standing though the officer behind grabs her shoulder.
“No, Aunt Julia.”
One of the girls hangs from Julia’s wrist, but Julia yanks it away and the twin stumbles.
“It’s him,” Julia says, pushing back from the table and standing. Her chair topples. “Tell them, Bill. Tell them you killed Maryanne.”
“Mrs. Herze said we’d never find Patches,” one of the girls says. “She said our cat was dead and that we ruined her flowers. We didn’t. We didn’t ruin those flowers. We went to find Patches. We went to Grandma’s to put out our flyers. Mr. Herze made them. Every one exactly the same. But we didn’t know which street to take. We couldn’t find her house.”
“Tell me, Bill,” Julia shouts.
Hair hangs in the girls’ faces in stringy clumps because they never took that bath. One is crying. It must be Arie. The other has red cheeks and her fists are clenched. Izzy.
“Stop it, Aunt Julia.” It’s Izzy. Arie is crying too hard to speak. “Uncle Bill found us. He was there at Grandma’s. He knew he’d find us there.”
There are more officers in the kitchen now. Too many. It smells like vinegar and the black leather shoes they wear. The stiff soles click across the floor, probably will leave black scars. And those blue uniforms. They are too heavy in this heat. The officers sweat in them and their sour odors fill the house.
“I was glad,” Bill says.
He lifts his eyes to Julia.
“God help me, Julia, but that morning, when you found Maryanne. For an instant, I was relieved.”
Julia falls back into her chair.
“It exhausted me. All those nights. All that crying.” Bill turns from Julia to the officer at his right. Talking one man to another, he says, “I couldn’t stop myself, couldn’t stop feeling that way. God, for an instant, I was relieved.” He coughs into a closed fist. His voice breaks. “What man feels that? What father? What kind of a father feels such a thing?”
The curly-haired officer stands at Bill’s side. Outside, the shouts for Izzy and Arie have stopped. No more footsteps on the front porch. Upstairs, a door shuts and water begins to run. The twins are gone.
“I didn’t hurt her, Julia,” Bill says. “But I think it’s worse, what I did. What I felt, the relief, I think it’s worse.”
The officer with the brown hair pulls on his hat, tucks his pad of paper under one arm, and walks from the kitchen. Bill stands alone, his arms hanging heavy at his sides. His hair is matted and his neck is speckled with red spots where he’s scratched at bug bites.
“How did you know to find them there?” Julia asks, staring at the small chip in her red tabletop.
“Didn’t know for sure. Figured it was that damn cat of theirs.”
“I felt it too, Bill.”
“No, you didn’t. That’s a lie. Don’t you tell me that lie.”
Julia shakes her head. “I did. It was as if I hadn’t exhaled since she was born, and then I did. It was that quick. Every day, I think about the things I didn’t know, about the things I could have done to help her.”
He is crying now. Softly, like sometimes a man does. His eyes red and wet, his face streaked with the sheen.
“I’m no kind of father.”
“You’re as good a father as I was a mother.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is, Bill. We’re peas in a pod. No different.”
“I can’t do it again.”
Julia stands on her toes and wraps her arms around his neck. The night air is tinted with smoke. Fireworks or perhaps somewhere a neighbor is burning yard waste. The shirt Bill wears must be his brother’s. The soft cotton smells of a day drying on the clothesline. Outside, a crash rings out. There are shouts again and running feet. There is a loud pop, as if a car has backfired, and the police run from the house. Izzy and Arie appear at the bottom of the stairs, or maybe they’ve been there all along. And then Arie says, which is surprising because Julia would have thought Izzy would be the one to say it, “Sounded like a gunshot.”
A Few Days After
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
On hands and knees, Julia dips her sponge in a bucket of warm, soapy water and squeezes with both hands until it runs dry. She crawls a few feet, presses the clean sponge to the baseboard, and begins again. Leaning on her left hand, she scrubs with her right until her shoulder burns. She straightens, dips the sponge in the water again, which is quickly becoming cold, squeezes and wrings it, and rests it on the side of the bucket.
The baseboards haven’t been cleaned in three years. The oak wood shines, almost looks yellow where she has scrubbed away the haze of dust and dirt. She pulls off her rubber gloves, turning each inside out as she tosses them to the floor. The crib is the only thing left in the room, and Grace is the only person who might have use of it. Many of the ladies have given Grace things over the past several months—clothes, quilts, diapers—but Julia never offered. Even though the crib was used only a short time, what mother would want to lay her child in such a bed—one where another baby died? Or would the kiss be the thing that stopped Grace from accepting the crib? That’s what Julia thought during the three days Grace was in the hospital. But then she was released, still pregnant with a healthy baby, and came to see Julia.
There was silence when Grace entered Julia’s house. They stood together in the foyer, where Julia had said she kissed Grace’s husband.
“I’ve come to apologize,” Grace had said.
“You should sit,” Julia said. “Put your feet up.”
Grace shook her head. “I’ve worried about the girls all summer, you know.”
“Yes,” Julia said. “But you have nothing to apologize for, Grace. Nothing. I’m the one who should be apologizing. What I said about James, about the kiss, it was a lie. Such a terrible lie.”
And then Grace told Julia. She told Julia about three men—two of them faceless and one whose face and hands and smell Grace knows better than her own. One man who Grace knows so well he must live inside her even now. Julia looked at Grace’s stomach and nearly tripped as she stumbled away. Grace shook her head. No, the baby belongs to James. The men came only a few weeks ago, the night Elizabeth’
s shoe was found. And as soon as Grace said it, Julia knew they were the ones.
“Elizabeth,” Julia whispered.
It was true, after all. Elizabeth didn’t wander off down Willingham to the river and find trouble far from home. Those men took her from Alder Avenue, from right outside her own house. They spared Grace, but they killed Elizabeth.
“No,” Grace said.
But Grace only said that because it was Julia’s fault Elizabeth was there for those men, Julia’s fault Elizabeth was such easy prey, Julia’s fault they could take Elizabeth from her own front yard.
“I know what you’re thinking, Julia. But I promise you, it wasn’t your doing.”
Again, Julia offered Grace a seat. Grace shook her head, walked toward the door, and placed one hand on the knob.
“The one who is dead,” she said, “the one I hit, I knew it was him. I wasn’t hoping to find the twins when I got in that car.” Her voice broke. She swallowed and continued. “I thought the girls were already gone. I thought it for certain. It wasn’t an accident. I wanted that man dead. I thought he’d killed Elizabeth and taken the twins. I was wrong. So now I have to say I killed him because of what he did to me.” She paused and looked at Julia for the first time since she began talking. “What he did to me, is that reason enough?”
Upstairs, the girls were quiet. They were in their room, or maybe listening at the landing.
“James?” Julia said.
Grace shook her head, knowing what Julia meant to ask. She meant to ask if Grace would ever tell James about the men.