The Blood Lie

by Shirley Reva Vernick

  “So should we—?” She straightened abruptly. “Lydie, listen. I hear something…Daisy?”

  “Nope, just us,” came a man’s voice. Emaline’s neighbor Jed Pike and his son Emmett stepped out from a crowd of evergreens. “Your mother called us about Daisy. Afraid we haven’t had any luck so far.”

  Emaline stole an anxious glance at Lydie.

  “Don’t you fret now,” Mr. Pike said, stepping closer. He smelled like cows and hay. “My nephew is out here too, and your mother had an alert put on the radio, so there’ll be others. We’ll find her. Say, you ladies have lights?”

  “Lights?” Emaline said. “No. We didn’t think we’d be out this long. We thought we were just—”

  “You might want to get something then,” he said. “The sun’ll set in another hour.”

  The girls stared at him.

  “Good idea,” Lydie finally said. “C’mon, Em, let’s scoot back to your house for a flashlight or a lantern.” She tugged at her cousin’s arm until Emaline finally let herself be pulled along.

  When they got to the house, Emaline couldn’t find her mother—the house was so crowded with neighbors and friends. “What are all these people doing here?” Emaline asked Lydie. “Look at all the food they brought, like for a funeral.” She looked around for Jack, but he didn’t seem to be here. Maybe he was out looking for Daisy.

  “Why is everyone staring—?” Emaline said. She stopped mid-question, her legs suddenly wobbling, her head light.

  Lydie helped her onto the sofa. “Let me get you some water,” she said, lifting Emaline’s feet onto the coffee table. “Or some juice. You need something—I’ll fix you a plate.”

  “No, I’d gag on it.” She leaned her head against the sofa and closed her eyes. “I’m fine, I just need a minute. Just one minute.”

  “Miss Durham?” came a deep voice overhead. “Emaline Durham?”

  Emaline looked up to see her Aunt Clarisse and a uniformed man hovering on the opposite side of the coffee table.

  “Emaline,” said the big man with the brick-red mustache. “I’m Victor Brown, state trooper, and I want you to know—”

  “I’ve seen the trooper. He’s older than you. And a lot shorter.”

  “That was Billy Moore.” He said the old trooper’s last name like it was MOO-wah, like it had no ‘r’ in it, like he wasn’t from around here. “He left a few weeks ago. I’m your trooper now. I’m in charge of this case.”

  “Case?

  “Case. Your aunt wants me to tell you—”

  “Where’s my mother?” Emaline took her feet off the table and started to stand, but Lydie pulled her back down.

  “In the kitchen, dear,” Clarisse said, taking a seat on the sofa and squeezing Emaline’s hand with her pudgy one. “She really wants to see you.”

  “Well, what the heck does he want?”

  “I just—your aunt wants you to know we got a lotta men searching for your sister,” the trooper said, twisting one end of his mustache between his fingers. “Upwards of a hundred, by my last count, including the whole fire squad. Won’t be long now till we get her home, I think. Anyways, you should call it a night, miss. It’s getting dark. No time for a young lady to be out.”

  “You’re right,” she said. “It’s no time at all for a young lady to be out. So we’d best get Daisy in, hadn’t we? Now if you’ll excuse me, sir, I’m going to go find my sister.”

  “I’m gonna insist now, miss,” he said. “We don’t need two girls going missing on us tonight.”

  Emaline shot him an acid glare, then stood up and headed for the kitchen. As she went, she glanced at the mantelpiece clock. It was past six. Daisy had been missing since lunchtime—six hours!—and there still wasn’t a sign of her. She’d vanished, and no one knew where or how.

  Mrs. Durham sat at the kitchen table, her chin on her hand. She was surrounded by a flock of women who stepped aside as soon as Emaline came in. The choir teacher and Sister Frances were there. So were most of Mrs. Durham’s quilting bee ladies, all of them with grim, pressed lips and narrow eyes.

  “The poor dear,” one of the women whispered. “First her father and now this.” Did she really think Emaline couldn’t hear her?

  “Ma?” she said, stepping closer.

  When Mrs. Durham raised her chin, Emaline let out a small gasp. Her mother looked just like one of the mannequins at Pool’s Dry Goods—so stiff and pale, staring at nothing.

  “Emaline, thank heavens you’re all right,” she said. “I was getting worried about you too.”

  “I couldn’t find her, Ma. But I will. I’m going to find her.”

  “No, stay inside. I don’t want you wandering those woods at night.”

  The other women murmured their agreement.

  “I have to, Ma.”

  “But…,” She squeezed Emaline’s hands. “Just be careful then, do you hear me? Be careful. Promise.”

  “I promise. I’ll be back as soon as I can, honest.” She glanced at the women, then back at her mother. Then she left the kitchen without saying good-bye or thank you or any other thing to anybody.

  Lydie was waiting for her by the coffee table. “How’s your mother?” she asked.

  “She looks just like she did the day Daddy died. Like a shell, like a broken shell.”

  “I’m sorry, Em.”

  “Yeah.” She scanned the room again and cleared her throat. “What’s going on out here?”

  “Nothing but bull. Spud McMann is beating his gums about hungry bears walking down the middle of the street over in Potsdam. Mae Petru is yammering about the maximum-security prison in Dannemora, how it’s only an hour away, how she wonders if they ever escape. I blocked out the rest.”

  Emaline’s eyes started to glisten.

  “Come on, Em, they’re all just a bunch of saps, gossiping instead of doing something useful. Look, I found a flashlight in the other room. Let’s head back out.” She took her cousin’s hand and gave it a tug.

  Emaline took a shaky breath, then the two of them hurried out the door where the first stars were twinkling in the evening sky.

  Pool’s Dry Goods was closed for the night at half past six, but Jack, Mr. Pool and Roscoe were still there. Roscoe and Jack had been in the backroom all day unloading the winter clothes shipment and listening to the Yankees-White Sox game on the Canton radio station. Now Jack was sweeping the front walk and rolling up the window awnings while Roscoe collapsed shipping boxes for the rubbish.

  “Jack,” Mr. Pool called out the open door, “that’s all for one day. Here, take this and eat at the diner, save your mother from cooking another meal.”

  “Okay.” He took the dollar from his father. “I’ll have change for you.”

  “Keep it. For your birthday.”

  “Thanks, Pa. You coming home soon?”

  “After a while.”

  ’Night, Roscoe. Who’s going to win tomorrow?”

  Roscoe clicked his tongue. “Indians.”

  “Not a chance, not against the Yankees. See you next week.”

  The Sit Down Diner was busier than usual tonight. Old Man Claghorn had dropped in for a slice of pie on his way home from the aluminum works. Bucky Sanborn, the traveling paper salesman, was there, and so was Frenchie LaRoux, who didn’t order anything but was chatting with his table neighbors—Dr. McCarthy on one side and the Lorado brothers on the other.

  Chuck Petru was eating home fries at the counter, reading the Observer and waiting for his wife to show up. At the other end of the counter, Roy Royman nursed a cup of coffee while Gus wiped down the doughnut case with a dishrag.

  Gus had heard about Daisy’s disappearance from Tiny, who’d heard the afternoon radio announcement—WMSA is asking folks to keep a lookout for four-year-old Daisy Durham, daughter of Jenna and the late Frank Durham, who entered Paradise Woods off of Ransom Avenue shortly before one o’clock today and hasn’t been seen since. Mrs. Durham asks for volunteers to help search the woods for her daughter.


  Gus had scowled when he learned the news but said nothing. An hour later, when his wife stopped by on her way to bring pierogies to Mrs. Durham, he got a little edgy. Finally, when Roy Royman came to say the trooper had ordered the whole fire squad to search the woods and the river, Gus blew up.

  “We’ve got a date with a whiskey boat smack dab in the middle of a missing-person search,” he hissed at Royman. “What if that greenhorn trooper sees and decides to get patriotic on us?”

  “You giving him free meals like you did Billy Moore?” Royman asked.

  “Coffee and Danish nearly every morning, but we can’t bank on that.”

  When the diner door rattled open for Jack, Gus and Royman were the only ones who looked up. The closer Jack got to the counter, the quieter Gus spoke, until he finally stopped himself mid-sentence.

  “Get you something?” Gus asked.

  “Scrambled eggs and toast, please,” Jack said. It was all he ever ordered, the meats, pies and pastries not being kosher.

  Gus wrote down the order and handed it to Tiny at the grill. “You’re working late tonight, boy,” he said to Jack.

  “Hmm? Oh, we had a shipment to unload. Plus we’ll be closed Monday for our holy day.”

  “Holiday? Which one?”

  “Yom Kippur.”

  “Yom Kippur.” Gus let the words roll around on his tongue. “That the one where you light candles for a week?”

  “No, that’s Hanukkah. In December.”

  “Right. Hmm. Well, your order’ll be right up.”

  When Gus went back to his spot opposite Roy, Jack disappeared inside his own thoughts: Do I really have a shot at getting into the Bentley School? Mr. Morse thinks so—he thinks I have real talent. I’m going to spend the whole evening practicing my audition piece. I wonder what Emaline will be doing tonight. What were George and Emaline talking about on the sidewalk today, anyway—was he asking her to the fall festival dance?

  Old Man Claghorn plunked his dirty plate on the counter and brushed piecrust crumbs off his shirt with Gus’ wiping towel. “So long, all,” he said, patting Chuck Petru on the back.

  “Not too long,” Gus said. “We’ve got coconut cream pie coming up tomorrow.” His gaze slid over to Jack for a moment. “Rhubarb, as well. Nice flaky crusts, guaranteed.”

  The door no sooner clattered behind Old Man Claghorn than Bud Carbino, the jeweler, walked in with his poker mates. Gus dropped a plate of eggs in front of Jack and went to greet the newcomers.

  Emaline and Lydie pressed on through the black snarl of trees that was Paradise Woods after dark, listening to the Sacred Heart bells ring seven times.

  “Everything looks the same,” Emaline said, swinging her flashlight this way and that. “Every tree, every rock. No wonder she got lost.”

  “Daisy!” Lydie called out. “Daisy, remember this one? Croak, said the toad, I’m hungry, I think. Today I’ve had nothing to eat or to drink. I’ll crawl to a garden and jump through the pales, and there I’ll dine nicely on slugs and on snails.”

  A bullfrog answered with a low, scraping tone, but no Daisy.

  “You know what I wish?” Emaline asked. “I wish I could turn back the clock and get home from shopping on time—early even. Then Daisy would never need to come out here to call us. We’d all be sitting around playing board games right now. God, I wish.”

  Lydie cracked her gum loudly. “I see flashlights in the distance up there. With any luck, you’ll be taking the checkers board out yet tonight.”

  Emaline squinted in the direction of the lights. “How many you think there are? The trooper said something about a hundred men, but it looks pretty sparse to me.”

  “Maybe the rest are hunting somewhere else.”

  “Or maybe they got tired and went home.”

  Lydie didn’t respond.

  “Too bad the old trooper isn’t around any more,” Emaline went on. “They say he really knew his onions.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Lydie?”

  “Uh huh?”

  “Back home, did you happen to notice… did you see anyone our age?”

  Lydie lifted her skirt as she stepped over a fallen branch. “You mean George Lingstrom?”

  “No, he told me he was going fishing at his uncle’s in Norwood today. I just meant…anyone else.”

  “I saw Margie Helmer right when we walked in. That’s all I can remember. Why?”

  “I’m just wondering where my friends are. I wonder if they’re out searching.”

  “Maybe. But maybe they don’t even know. If they didn’t have the radio on or—”

  “Everybody knows about this,” Emaline snapped. “Everybody! What I want to know is, who’s doing anything about it?”

  “I only meant—”

  “Never mind, forget I asked,” Emaline said. “Let’s just keep going.”

  Gus still had his diner apron on when he got to the Durham’s a little after 7:30. He caught sight of his wife and quickly untied it.

  “Gus?” said Bettina. “Who’s watching the diner?”

  “No one. Tiny. I just wanted to see what’s going on. And to get you home.”

  “No, the quilting circle is all staying. I’ll get myself home. You’ll manage without me—I left a dish of cannoli in the icebox for you.”

  “I’ll be late tonight, myself.”

  Bettina frowned. “You aren’t going out on a night like tonight?”

  “Hush your voice. I’m not going out. I’m just…going to keep the diner open late on account of the search. Men’ll be getting cold and hungry out there, maybe wanting some coffee and pie.”

  “Well! That’s real neighborly. You go on, then.”

  “Okay. See you later.” He squeezed her arm and started toward the living room.

  “Gus? I thought you were going back to the diner. I don’t know if Tiny can do it alone.”

  “He’ll be fine for a few more minutes. I need to talk to that trooper first. I have an idea—a lead.”

  “About Daisy?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Why, Gus, what on God’s green earth is it?”

  “I’ll tell you more when I get home. Don’t you worry. Everything is going to be fine. Now, where’s the trooper—is he here?”

  “In the dining room, last I saw,” Bettina said, giving him a victorious little kiss on the cheek. “I’m off to wash dishes. You go solve the case for the trooper.”

  When Jack got home from the diner, the house was so still he wondered if his family had gone out. But then Mrs. Pool called from the dining room, “Jack? Come, we’re just starting.” It was time for the havdalah blessing, which marked the end of the Sabbath, and she, Harry, and Martha were already gathered around the dining table. Jack rubbed his tired eyes and joined them.

  The havdalah candle was really two candles twisted around and around each other like a braid. One wick stood for the Sabbath; the other, for the ordinary days. Mrs. Pool touched a match to both wicks, and when their flames joined together, she said, “Here we leave the Sabbath and start the week renewed.” Then she doused the candle so she could reuse it next week.

  That’s when Jack realized his birthday was almost over. Some special day this has been, he thought.

  “Can I have the salmon box first?” Martha asked.

  “B’samim box,” Harry corrected her.

  “Well, can I have it first this time?”

  Mrs. Pool handed her the small silver box filled with cloves and cinnamon and studded with diamond-shaped holes. Martha shook the box and held it to her nose, inhaling so deeply she coughed. “Mmm, that smells soooo good,” she said and passed the box on.

  Smelling good was the whole purpose of the spice box. According to Mr. Pool, it was meant to cheer people up when they were feeling sad that Shabbos was over. Mrs. Pool said it was supposed to remind everyone to carry the sweetness of the Sabbath into the week. When the box made its way to Jack, he lingered over the sweet and peppery aroma, imagining it was Emaline’
s hair. One breath of the spices and he was dancing with her at the fall festival dance. One more breath and he had to put away the box for another week.

  “Come along, Martha,” Mrs. Pool said, taking the good cloth off the dining table and folding it. “We’ll check on the chickens before we make the almond bread.”

  “I’ll check on them, Mama,” Harry volunteered. Anything not to be sent back to kitchen duty.

  “Fine.” She laid the linens aside. “Jack, you can peel that basket of potatoes sitting in the sink.”

  “Can’t I practice a little first—for just a few minutes?” he asked.

  Jack could feel Harry bracing to protest if their mother caved to Jack. So when she winked her okay, he raced upstairs before Harry could open his mouth.

  “So what’s all the secrecy?” Victor asked once he and Gus got into the police car in front of the Durham’s house.

  “I’ll tell you flat out,” Gus said. “It’s time you knew. This girl who disappeared, it’s the Jews.” His lips curled as if the very word tasted bitter.

  “The Jews?”

  “They have strange customs for their holidays. Terrible customs. They use blood. Drink it and bake it in their special foods. Blood of a Christian child, not one of their own. One of their big holidays is in a couple days, see. They call it Yon Kippur or something. That’s why they took Daisy. I just hope they didn’t murder her yet, that they’re holding onto her till their big day. If you move fast enough, you might save her.”

  Victor’s eyes narrowed, and he started twiddling his mustache. “What makes you so sure about this?”

  “One of them Jews came into the diner a few minutes ago and couldn’t keep his mouth shut. Kept dropping hints. Like he felt guilty and needed to talk. I put two and two together, that’s all.”

  Victor gripped the steering wheel.

  “Stop futzing with them woods for a kid who isn’t even there,” Gus persisted. “Listen to me. I’m telling you the truth. I know what goes on in this town—I hear everything every day at the diner. It’s those Jews that—”

  “God—” Victor muttered, shaking his head.