by Lori Roy
When the officers have left the house, Grace helps Mr. Symanski into the living room. He sits in Ewa’s chair. Grace sits on the tweed sofa, where she is close enough to reach out and pat his knee.
“Today is being Elizabeth’s birthday, you know,” Mr. Symanski says.
Grace nods to make him think she remembered even though she hadn’t. She hadn’t remembered because she’d been thinking about pierogi and those women on Willingham and how best to distract Julia from memories of her daughter. The lavender dress should have reminded Grace sooner. Mr. Symanski sinks into the chair that is too large for him and rests his cheek on one of the cushions as if it were Ewa’s shoulder.
“I’m sure she’ll be home soon,” Grace says, placing a hand on Mr. Symanski’s knee. It’s like a small wooden knob under her fingers. “You know James. He’ll take care of this.”
James always knows what to do, how to fix things, how to make things right. When the car sputters, he knows which tool to use and what needs to be tightened or replaced. When the water heater stops warming, he tinkers until it works. When the television shows only static, he knows just how to turn the antennae. When, after five years, Grace still wasn’t pregnant, he insisted no wife of his would have such worries. He scolded her when she cried over it, promised to stay no matter how many years passed, and eventually he put an end to that problem too and gave Grace a baby.
“He’ll have Elizabeth home in no time,” Grace says. “I have brownies for her. And I know how she loves the ice cream. She’ll be home before you know it.”
Mr. Symanski takes a sip from his coffee. “I’m feeling she won’t,” he says, staring at a blank wall. “I’m feeling very badly she won’t ever come home.”
CHAPTER FOUR
It’s well past bedtime for Izzy and Arie, short for Isabelle and Arabelle, when they tiptoe down Aunt Julia’s stairs. Both of them wear nightgowns yellowed at the seams where Grandma used too much bleach. They stare straight ahead as they pass through the entry so they won’t be tempted to glance at the telephone. Mrs. Witherspoon, Grandma’s neighbor, promised to call if their cat turned up. Patches is her name. She ran away from Grandma’s house two weeks ago. Grandma said it’s what cats do when the weather turns warm and not to worry. Now that Elizabeth Symanski is missing, the girls shouldn’t be concerning themselves with a cat, but they didn’t know Elizabeth all that well, and they’d had Patches for almost a year. One thing’s for sure, though. Staring at a phone won’t make it ring. Once in the living room, where Aunt Julia says they can all wait together until Elizabeth comes home, the girls sit. Their bare calves hang over the side of the loveseat, and their feet dangle, nearly touching the floor, but not quite. Next year, they’ll reach.
Every summer since before they can remember, the girls have looked forward to visiting Aunt Julia and Uncle Bill. Back home, where the twins live the rest of the year with Grandma, they are almost never allowed out of the yard, especially when the weather warms up. It’s the polio, Grandma always says. No sense tempting fate. Now, here they are, cooped up just like at Grandma’s. Every other summer, Friday night at Aunt Julia’s meant an evening at Sanders. That’s the real reason the girls packed their store-bought dresses. They would sit, the girls, Uncle Bill, and Aunt Julia, at the Sanders counter, and as Uncle Bill ordered from the man wearing an apron and small white hat, Aunt Julia would scold the girls for twirling on the round stools. Then they’d all eat hot-fudge sundaes from fluted glass dishes.
Outside Aunt Julia’s front window, streams of yellow thrown from flashlights drift back and forth across the lawn. Dry grass crackles under heavy boots, and as broad-shouldered shadows glide past the windows, voices call out to Elizabeth. Mostly men’s voices, deep and scratchy. Some are close, next door or down the street. Others are muffled, as if coming from a block or two away. The quieter voices are harder to listen to. They mean the men have traveled farther and farther away, thinking Elizabeth has done the same. The quieter voices come from someplace dark, where all the porch lights aren’t shining and the front doors don’t stand wide open. The quieter voices mean maybe Elizabeth won’t be found as quickly as Aunt Julia thought. The twins, and Aunt Julia, too, are waiting for silence, because silence will mean the men, whether near or far, have stopped shouting and Elizabeth has been found. Silence will be a good thing.
“What will Elizabeth do?” Izzy says, turning her back on the telephone so she won’t be tempted to think about Patches or warm, bittersweet chocolate. Her stomach clenches and reminds her they skipped supper. Another great thing about Aunt Julia’s house is the food. She cooks as well as Grandma, maybe better, and never insists on clean plates and always makes enough for seconds. Food isn’t such a chore at Aunt Julia’s house. “When it’s time for bed,” Izzy says, “what will she do?”
Izzy’s damp red hair hangs in strands over her shoulders, the ends frayed where she didn’t bother to comb through them after her bath. Grandma is always shouting—Izzy, get busy. Izzy, get busy brushing your hair. Izzy, get busy making your bed. Izzy, get busy. Arie’s hair is nearly dry because she is better about scrubbing it with a towel. No one ever shouts at Arie to get busy.
“What do you mean, sugar?” Aunt Julia says.
“What will Elizabeth do without a bed to sleep in?” Arie says before Izzy can answer for herself.
Izzy stares hard at Arie and shakes her head. Grandma doesn’t like it when they do things like finish each other’s sentences and thoughts. She says it feels like something the good Lord didn’t intend. Scooting to the edge of the sofa so she doesn’t have to look Izzy in the eye, Arie begins rubbing the ends of her fingers, one after the other, no doubt wishing she held Grandma’s rosary in her hands so she could rub its smooth, ivory-colored beads instead of her own fingertips. But the rosary is upstairs, hanging from Arie’s headboard, where she has kept it since they arrived.
“I believe Elizabeth will sleep in her own bed tonight,” Aunt Julia says. She stands, tugging at her slim skirt where it buckles on her hips, and walks over to the front door. “I was with her just this afternoon at Mrs. Richardson’s. She’ll be happy as can be to see you two.” Pushing open the screen door, Aunt Julia leans out and looks up and down the street. “I bet she’d be pleased to help you find that cat of yours. Just as soon as she’s home, we’ll all go together. We’ll take out the sedan, drive over to Grandma’s, and have a look around.”
Outside, a few doors slam shut and, soon after, engines fire up, rumble, and fade as the cars roll down the street. The bushes along the west side of the house rustle. The men are kicking them or swatting at them with yardsticks. They must think Elizabeth is hiding there. Aunt Julia rubs her thin reddish eyebrows, inhales a deep breath, spins around on one heel, and returns to her seat at the larger sofa. Deep voices continue to call out to Elizabeth. “Come on home,” they shout. “Supper’s on the table.” Following Aunt Julia’s example, the girls rest their hands in their laps, cross their ankles, and sit with a straight back.
As the twins stare out the front window, Aunt Julia trying to smile each time they glance her way, they realize the neighborhood is quiet. The voices have stopped calling. The girls close their eyes and each takes a breath, together at the same time because that’s how it works between them. They don’t want to hear another man shout out that supper is waiting or that Papa is home and misses his Elizabeth. After a few more moments of silence, the twins open their eyes, look at each other and then at Aunt Julia. Arie squirms to the edge of the loveseat, stands, and leaps into the center of the room. She claps her hands together and draws them to her chest. Aunt Julia smiles, shows her teeth. She hears the silence too. All three turn when a heavy foot hits the front porch. Aunt Julia jumps from the sofa.
Uncle Bill’s head is the first thing to poke through the open screen door. He’s wearing his black Tigers cap, the same one he pulls on every night as soon as he gets home from work. His hair is almost as dark as that hat. He crosses into the house, his black steel-toed wo
rk boots clumping on the wooden floor, and as he passes Arie, still standing in the center of the room, he scoops her up with one arm, cradles her to his side, and together they drop down on the large sofa opposite Izzy. Aunt Julia closes her eyes and exhales a long breath. Taking steps that make no noise at all, she follows Uncle Bill and sits next to him. Uncle Bill wraps his other arm around Aunt Julia, settling back into the sofa’s deep, square cushions, dragging her with him. She laughs and slaps at his chest, but not slaps that would hurt. Then she leans into him, lets her head rest on his shoulder, and seems to forget for a moment that the twins are in the room.
“I’m so relieved,” Aunt Julia says, sinking into Uncle Bill’s side.
Grandma says the girls are the spitting image of their mother, but Izzy and Arie don’t know their mother. Grandma says take a gander at your aunt Julia. That’s close enough. Izzy resists a peek at her own flat chest. There is no chance Aunt Julia ever looked like Izzy and Arie and no chance Izzy and Arie will ever grow to look like Aunt Julia.
Stretching an arm around Uncle Bill’s waist, Aunt Julia hooks a finger through one of his belt loops. “Where was she?”
Uncle Bill kisses the top of Arie’s head and winks at Izzy across the room. It’s not too late, yet. Maybe there will still be time for a drive downtown and chocolate sundaes. When Uncle Bill doesn’t answer, Aunt Julia unhooks her finger, slides to the edge of the sofa, and shifts in her seat so she can face him square-on.
“You found her, didn’t you?” Aunt Julia’s voice becomes thick and slow. Her Southern roots have a way of breaking ground whenever she gets especially worked up. “That’s why you’re home, right? You found Elizabeth.”
Arie pokes Uncle Bill and points at the cap he still wears even though he’s inside. Uncle Bill gives her the same wink he gave Izzy and snaps the bill of his cap between two fingers. It flips off his head, spins end over end, and lands in his lap.
“Not yet,” he says, pinching the tip of Arie’s chin.
“What do you mean, not yet?” Aunt Julia stands and stares down on Uncle Bill. “It’s pitch-black out there. She has to be home.”
Uncle Bill pats the cushion next to him, and when Aunt Julia sits again, he pats her knee. “We’ve stirred up a hornets’ nest, girls,” he says, rubbing his rough face against Arie’s cheek. He’s done that to Izzy before so she knows why Arie tucks her chin and giggles. Izzy touches a hand to her own cheek because she can almost feel it too. “You’re going to have to stay close to home for a while.”
“Grandma says hornets will leave us well enough alone if we leave them well enough alone,” Izzy says.
“Not that kind of hornets, kiddo.”
“What is it, Bill?” Aunt Julia says.
“A lot of angry words being tossed around down at the Filmore. Best the girls stay close to home until Elizabeth is found.”
The Filmore Apartments are the reason Grandma almost didn’t let Izzy and Arie come to Aunt Julia’s this year. Coloreds live there, and Grandma said it’s only a matter of time now. If people are throwing around angry words, that must mean they think the coloreds have been stirring up trouble and maybe they stirred up trouble for Elizabeth. Maybe she didn’t wander off like Aunt Julia thinks she did.
“What about our cat?” Izzy says. The words pop out before she can stop them. It’s easier to think about a lost cat than a lost person. “If we can’t leave the house, we can’t very well find her. Isn’t that right? You’re saying we can’t look for Patches.”
“It’ll only be for a short time,” Uncle Bill says. “You can put out food on the back porch. Milk, maybe. Cats like milk. Try to tempt her home.”
Izzy stands and takes a few steps toward Aunt Julia and Uncle Bill. “Couple days won’t hurt, I guess,” she says, but before she can finish, Uncle Bill wraps one long arm around her waist and scoops her up too.
“But no leaving the house without Aunt Julia’s permission,” he says, rubbing his day-old beard against Izzy’s cheek like he did Arie’s. “Understood?”
Like Arie, Izzy tucks her chin and laughs.
Together, the twins say, “Understood.”
“So you’ll go back now?” Aunt Julia says. “You’ll go and help the others.” She stands again and smooths her skirt. Every part of Aunt Julia is plentiful and round. She is forever reattaching buttons and stitching up stressed seams. “You should get going. The girls and I will be fine.”
Uncle Bill squeezes the twins close and talks over Izzy’s head. “There’s one more thing, Julia. It’s the police. There’s a fellow outside, an officer. He’d like to talk to you.”
“To me?”
Uncle Bill nods. “I’ll come with you. You girls are fine here for a few minutes, aren’t you?”
“No,” Aunt Julia says. She waves a hand at the three of them and smiles but doesn’t show her teeth this time. “I’m happy to talk with him. You all stay put.”
• • •
The man standing on Julia’s front porch wears a blue hat, a dark shirt, and a tie. A police officer’s uniform. He removes his hat, squints into the overhead light. “Ma’am.”
“I have children in here,” Julia says, meaning she doesn’t want the girls to hear what this man might say.
The officer backs away, a signal for Julia to join him. Once they have moved off the porch, the officer’s eyes drop to Julia’s chest and loiter. She pulls closed the lightweight cardigan she slipped on at sunset, crosses her arms, and scratches at a small grease stain on her sleeve.
Outside the house, the shadows that had floated past the living-room windows have transformed into real people stooping to search under parked cars, wading through bushes that grow between houses, crawling under porches. A few flashlights settle on Julia before sweeping on past. The shouts have started up again and the air no longer smells of sweet sulfur. Everyone has put away the fireworks for the night.
“There’s news?” Julia asks, wrapping her arms more tightly around her waist.
The officer introduces himself. Officer Thompson. Julia wants to run a finger up his back like she does to the girls when they forget their manners and slouch. The officer has been at the Symanski house. He asks if Julia knows the Symanski girl and she says of course. They are waiting, she and the twins, for news Elizabeth is safe. The girls are too young to be out and are afraid to be left alone, so they are waiting at home, together.
“And you saw her today?” Officer Thompson asks. His light brown hair is matted to his forehead where his hat rested. “You saw . . .” He flips through a small pad of paper. “Elizabeth Symanski?”
“Earlier in the day,” Julia says. “Around lunchtime. Much before any of this.”
“And what can you tell me of that meeting?”
The officer stares down at his pad and only looks up when Julia is too long in answering. “You recall having seen her?”
“You make it sound so formal. I walked her home, is all. It was one thirty or so. Lunchtime at Grace Richardson’s house. Much before any of this.”
“You saw her to her door?”
Julia squints into a set of headlights rolling past. “I suppose I should say I watched her walk home.”
“You watched?” the officer asks. “And what is it you saw?”
“From the sidewalk, I watched her. She reached her gate, the iron gate outside her house. And then her door. I saw her make her way inside.”
The officer motions for Julia to follow him. She glances back at her house before joining the officer at the end of the driveway. Once there, he places both hands on Julia’s shoulders and turns her to face the west end of the street. Then he moves behind her, leans forward until his chest bumps against the back of her head, stretches out his right arm and points down Alder Avenue.
“Like this?” he asks. “From the end of a drive like this you watched Elizabeth make her way home?”
“Yes,” she says, inching away from the officer. “But I stood on Grace’s driveway. Much closer to the Symanskis’
.”
“Eight houses,” Officer Thompson says. When Julia tries to twist away, he grips her by both shoulders again and forces her to continue to look toward the Symanskis’ house. “I counted eight houses between the Richardsons’ and the Symanskis’.”
With one extended finger, the officer counts out eight houses. His arm brushes against the side of Julia’s head. She takes one step away, but the officer draws her back with a hand to her shoulder. Again, he points.
“I wonder,” he says, “are you quite certain you saw her enter the house? From a distance such as this, even in good light? Is that possible, do you think?”
“The iron gate,” Julia says. “She ran her fingers along the iron gate. I saw that. She reached her gate.”
And now Julia knows. She was the last to see Elizabeth Symanski.
“Elizabeth’s been gone all day?” Julia says. “All this time? Has no one else seen her?”
“You’re quite sure she opened the gate?” the officer says, not answering Julia’s questions.
“It was a difficult day,” Julia says.
“She pushed it open?” the officer asks again, now standing at Julia’s side. “You’re quite certain? Walked through it and then up her sidewalk?”
“There was news,” Julia says, silently counting out eight houses. In the light of day, she’d have seen much better. “The ladies were all talking. And the twins. They’ve only recently arrived. I had much to think about. She’s done this before, you know. Elizabeth has strayed before. Surely someone else saw her after I did. One of the other ladies. One of the neighbors. She’s wandered off. That’s all.”
She can’t tell this man that instead of concerning herself with Elizabeth’s well-being, Julia had been worried about the dead woman on Willingham and the prostitutes who come to the factory over the lunch hour. She can’t tell him that Bill has been a good husband for the last two years and still she worries like all the ladies worry. She can’t explain to him how Betty Lawson’s baby cried and forced Julia from Grace’s house. How those cries made Julia ache and want to double over from the pain of it but instead she dipped a finger in the baked beans and called for more brown sugar. She can’t tell him that three years ago her own baby died and her husband won’t father another, that he won’t even touch her, not in that way. The officer wouldn’t understand that Julia had to leave Grace Richardson’s house before lunch was served because the fear of never having another baby had suffocated her and now she is so very sorry she didn’t watch Elizabeth closely enough. Avoiding the officer’s eyes, Julia says none of these things.
