Until She Comes Home

by Lori Roy

  “He’d never forgive himself,” Grace said. “Mother thought he wouldn’t want me after it happened, but she was wrong. It’s the guilt that would destroy him. I think he knows that too. Deep down, I think he knows that too. I can’t do it to him, to us.”

  When Grace said it was time to get home, Julia asked her to wait a moment and rummaged through the coat closet’s top shelf until she found the belt the twins had stolen. She couldn’t repair the hole Arie dug in the thin leather, but returning it was the right thing to do.

  “Could you give this back to Mr. Symanski?” Julia had said. “The girls, they stole it. Tried to tell me it was yours, that it was trash from your garage. I can’t imagine what they were thinking.” She ran a finger across the small buckle that sparkled where Arie had scrubbed it clean. “I remember Elizabeth wearing it. One of her favorites. Do you remember?” She stretched out her arm, handed the belt to Grace. “I know I’m a coward for it, but I can’t bring myself to face him.”

  Grace stood at the front door, one hand resting on the silver doorknob. “I suspect they did find it in my garage,” she said, shaking her head and pushing away the belt. “You let them keep it. And talk to Arie, would you? Tell her I’m going to be all right.” She pulled open the door and paused on the porch as if enjoying the feel of the sun on her face. “Promise you’ll believe me. Promise because you are my dearest friend and I wouldn’t lie to you. What happened to Elizabeth . . . it wasn’t your fault.”

  Regardless of whether Grace will want the crib or not, Julia can’t take it apart without Bill’s help. She was able to lug the small dresser downstairs by packing up all the tiny clothes, removing the drawers, and carting them down, one by one. She’ll ask Bill what he thinks when he comes in from outside. He’s been out back for forty-five minutes, struggling to tighten rusted screws and bolts so Julia’s clothesline won’t droop. But she doesn’t really need to ask. She knows Bill will say to save Grace the heartache and give the crib to the church. Give it to them and don’t tell them to whom it once belonged.

  “What are you doing, Aunt Julia?”

  Huddled together in the nursery doorway, the girls lean into the room but don’t cross over the threshold. Both have wet hair. They took their baths without being asked, a sign they are trying to make up for running off.

  “You’ll both need a trim soon,” Julia says, pushing off the floor. “A nice haircut before school starts.”

  “Where did everything go?” Izzy’s voice bounces off the walls, almost echoes in the nearly empty room.

  The girls must have peeked into the nursery at some point over the last three years. What child wouldn’t? A mysterious door that is always closed. Of course they peeked. Julia motions with her head for the girls to come inside.

  Izzy is the first to move because she isn’t afraid. She is never afraid. She marches across the small room, opens and closes the closet door, and then walks over to the window, where she waves at Arie to join her. The air is light and crisp this morning. Izzy draws a deep breath in through her nose. Across the street, the windows in Warren Herze’s house are dark, the driveway empty. He’ll likely move soon and eventually he’ll remarry. He could never stay in that house. He could never walk into that garage again.

  “I owe you two an apology,” Julia says, and motions for Arie to join her inside the room. “I should have known you were gone. I left you both alone, and I’m sorry as I can be.”

  “We thought you’d come the first night,” Arie says as she walks up next to Julia and leans into her until their bodies touch. Arie is warm and smells of soap and shampoo. She stares at the crib sitting alone in the corner of the room. “When it got dark,” she says, “we thought you’d miss us and that you’d come looking. We walked all night.”

  “Will we lose privileges?” Izzy asks, resting her head against Julia’s arm. Her damp hair leaves a wet stain on Julia’s sleeve.

  “You two should stay,” Julia says. “Stay here with Uncle Bill and me. Not live at Grandma’s anymore. Go to school here and live here. Izzy, this could be your room to have all to yourself.”

  “What about that?” Izzy says, pointing at the crib.

  “We’ll give it to someone with a baby,” Julia says. “Would you girls like to stay? To have your own rooms? Here with Uncle Bill and me. We’d like it very much if you’d stay.”

  “Can we paint the room blue?” Izzy asks.

  “Yes,” Julia says. “Blue would be a fine choice.”

  • • •

  It’s a perfect day for rolling dough, cooler, drier. This may have been Grace’s problem all along. But the heat hadn’t caused trouble for the women of Willingham. Their pierogi had turned out perfectly and are tucked safely in Grace’s freezer. If she had gone back to Nowack’s Bakery, if she would ever go back, the women would make more, but there won’t be a bake sale this year. Without Malina, there may never be another. Grace pushes her wooden pin over the smooth dough, her large belly only allowing her to reach halfway across the table. She straightens, stretches, and the baby rolls, settling on a more comfortable position.

  When the water boils, Grace drops in her first pierogi. She stands back, but not so far that she can’t see inside the pot. White foam trims the small crescent-shaped dumpling, but the seal holds. No leaks, no swollen, waterlogged center. Soon, it floats, bouncing along the rolling boil. Grace sets her timer for two minutes. When it dings, she reaches in with a wire ladle, scoops up the noodle, and taps it out on a sheet of waxed paper. After she fishes two perfect pierogi from the pot, she adds them three at a time, gently stirring so they don’t stick. Soon enough, two dozen are done. When they are cool to the touch, she lays them in even rows in a casserole dish, each layer separated by a sheet of waxed paper, and covers the entire dish with aluminum foil. At the back door, she pulls on her gloves and hat, grabs the casserole dish and a paper bag full of Elizabeth’s clothes, and walks from the house.

  Grace doesn’t go to Willingham anymore. She and James will move soon, and she’ll have to find a new place to do her shopping. By the time they settle in their new house, she’ll be a mother. She may not want to shop every day anymore. She might go only once or twice a week. Julia sometimes calls to see if Grace needs anything from the deli or the bakery. She always says no, thank you, but stop in for coffee when you get home. Julia and Bill won’t move now, but maybe someday.

  The door to Mr. Symanski’s house opens.

  “I am knowing that smell,” he says.

  “They won’t be as good as Ewa’s.”

  “Yes,” he says, taking the brown bag from Grace. “I am thinking they will be very close.”

  Grace pauses inside the house, adjusts to the emptiness, and then follows Mr. Symanski into the kitchen. She sets the casserole dish on the stove and removes her gloves and hat. Mr. Symanski reaches into the brown paper bag he set on the counter and slowly, by its lavender sleeve, pulls out the dress lying on top. To afford Mr. Symanski his privacy, Grace turns toward the sink.

  “I thought you’d want to keep some of her things,” she says.

  She can’t bring herself to look, but probably Mr. Symanski is touching the dress’s tiny white buttons the women reattached.

  “It was always being her favorite,” he says.

  Grace pushes off the counter and turns. “She was wearing it the last time I saw her, Charles.”

  He sits at the kitchen table, letting the dress lie across his lap. His silver hair has gotten too long and it brushes against his white-collared shirt. Ewa would have never let it grow so long.

  “I am not being able to sleep with her things in the house,” Mr. Symanski says. “That is why I am giving them away. The police, they scolded me for doing it, but I am not being able to sleep.”

  “Yes,” Grace says.

  “It was being afternoon, you know. The river, it’s one of the only places I am remembering anymore. So many years working down there. I am thinking the river would take her away and it would be seeming as
if it never happened. Such a big river. Wouldn’t you be thinking the same?”

  Grace pulls out a chair and sits opposite Mr. Symanski.

  “Charles?”

  “It is being a horrible thing to be the last one,” he says. “You are knowing this, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am not wanting Elizabeth to be last. Not wanting her to be alone. They are saying she would never be so long with us. I am trying to outlive her, but it is too difficult. What would have become of her if she is being the last one left? I am just too tired to carry the thought.”

  Grace reaches across the table, but Mr. Symanski doesn’t take her hands.

  “I am thinking someone would hear the noise.” His eyes drift off to the right as if he can see Warren Herze’s house, but he can’t. “The shot. No one heard. No one came. I am not wanting her to die in her favorite dress,” he says. “So many people looking for my Elizabeth. That was being most painful. I am knowing maybe I was wrong. Maybe she wouldn’t have been alone. And then I am wanting her back so badly I am hoping the men will find her. I am believing they might and that she will be coming home. I am sitting with all of you ladies, hoping they are finding her.”

  Grace stands, walks around the kitchen table, and sits in the chair nearest Mr. Symanski.

  “I am not wanting her to be the last one left,” he says. “But I am thinking I was wrong. This is being why the river didn’t take her away.”

  Grace stays with Mr. Symanski until she knows James will be home soon. She won’t leave him to wonder where she is. He worries so much after all that has happened. He worries these bad things will seep into his own home and taint what is good. He worries like Grace used to.

  “You’ll be telling who you must,” Mr. Symanski says at the front door. “I am not caring for myself. You are knowing this, yes?” He blinks slowly. “If you cannot be telling them while I am alive, tell them when I’m gone. It will be soon. Every day, I am feeling closer to my Ewa, and Elizabeth, too. They are being together. No one is being alone but me.”

  Grace pulls Mr. Symanski’s hands together, lifts them to her lips, and then lowers them to her stomach. He smiles at the kicks and rolls he feels there. A few cars drive past. There are three For Sale signs in the neighborhood now. A fourth sign will soon go up at Orin Schofield’s house. He’ll move south to live with his daughter and her family. Others in the neighborhood, those without the money to move, will stay and do what they can to keep a nice yard and well-tended house.

  No one talks to one another like they once did. People say two of the Negro families have moved away, but Grace never saw them come or go. She never saw them living alongside her. Green glass still litters the back alley some mornings. Though James fusses at her, Grace continues to clean it up. Some of the other neighbors leave it, only kicking aside the larger pieces and shards that might flatten a tire.

  James and Grace won’t sail on the Ste. Claire this year because the baby is so close to coming. But they have already agreed. On July 4, they’ll drive to the foot of Woodward and watch as the passengers gather on the gangplank, and after everyone has boarded, the ship will pull away, drawing a lazy wake behind her. Steam will flow from her stacks, and the hollow horn will blast, echoing through the streets of downtown Detroit. It’ll be a lonely sound and, for a time, Grace will feel something has been lost. But then she’ll remember the shine on the brass railings and the glossy dance floor where she first fell in love with her husband. She and James will watch and listen until the boat disappears down the Detroit River, leaving behind an empty stretch of water. They’ll take their own daughter one day and they’ll always arrive early to secure a spot in the front of the line so the railings and the fittings will shine as if never before touched.

  At the end of Mr. Symanski’s sidewalk, Grace pushes open his iron gate. The latch is broken. Tonight, over supper, she’ll ask James to fix it. She and James, together, will come this weekend to trim Mr. Symanski’s lawn and invite him for Sunday supper. Grace will make a roast and potatoes and Mr. Symanski and James will watch baseball on the television. Bill and Julia and the girls will come for dessert. The girls like to sprinkle salt on the ice when James makes ice cream. Then they’ll sit outdoors until long past dark. On the other side of the gate, Grace pulls it closed and walks toward home.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  It has been my great fortune to again work with the wonderful Denise Roy. My deepest thanks to you, Denise, for your suggestions, observations, and insights and for knowing my characters better than I know them. My thanks, also, to Brian Tart and the entire team at Dutton and Plume for their support of my work.

  Over the past few years, during which I have had the privilege to work with Jenny Bent of the Bent Agency, I have learned that perseverance is a most important quality in an agent. Jenny is a shining example of this trait. My thanks to you, Jenny, for never giving up, for your honesty, and for your guidance.

  I would again like to thank Karina Berg Johansson and Adam Smith for their friendship and for wielding those red pens with abandon. Thank you to Stacy Brandenburg for the laughs and to Kim Turner for the ongoing support.

  My thanks to Orville and Evelyn Roy, Suzanne Lanza, and Michele Moons for sharing their memories of the great city of Detroit. My thanks to my mother, Jeanette, for inspiring dedication and to my father, Norm, for being the first storyteller in my life. Supper continues to be late at my house and the laundry is never caught up, so, once again, thanks to Bill, Andrew, and Savanna for always understanding.

  And finally, as I once worked in the corporate world, I know there are a great many people laboring on behalf of my books who I never get a chance to work with directly or to thank. So my thanks to all of you in sales, publicity, design, editing, distribution, inventory control, IT, HR, legal, finance, tax, manufacturing, and all other Penguin divisions I may have forgotten. And because I once was one . . . thank you to the accountants.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Lori Roy was born and raised in Manhattan, Kansas, where she graduated from Kansas State University. Her debut novel, Bent Road, was awarded the Edgar Allan Poe Award for Best First Novel by an American Author, named a 2011 New York Times Notable Crime Book, and chosen as a 2012 Notable Book by the state of Kansas. Until She Comes Home is her second novel. Lori currently lives with her family in west central Florida.

  Table of Contents

  Also by Lori Roy

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

 

 

 

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