by Lori Roy
“You were driving that car,” Jerry says, pointing at the pale green sedan parked in front of Mr. Herze’s car, and again he tries to press forward, but he can’t get at Malina because Mr. Herze blocks the path with a stiff arm. “That car right there. You drove to the corner and turned down Woodward.”
Malina knows from many years of experience to keep her eyes on Mr. Herze. She knows not to let them drift to one side or the other. It’s how he knows she’s lying. “I’m sorry I can’t help you,” she says. “You’re mistaken, I’m afraid.”
Mr. Herze grips the front of Jerry’s rumpled undershirt, pulls him close, and speaks in a whisper. Jerry says nothing else, certainly nothing Malina can hear. Mostly he shakes his head. Signaling the conversation is over, Mr. Herze drops Jerry’s shirt, tucks in the front of his own shirt where his belly has pulled it loose of his trousers, and walks back to the house. Reminding herself to smile, Malina opens the passenger-side door, smooths under her skirt, and sinks into the front seat. She closes her eyes and rests her arms on her lap, her palms open, not touching anything. Outside, Mr. Herze walks back to the front porch, locks and pulls twice on the door, and joins Malina in the car.
“Warren,” Malina says, blinking because keeping good eye contact is more difficult when Mr. Herze is sitting this close. “Have you fired Jerry Lawson?”
It’s the question any wife would ask under normal circumstances.
“Him and three others.”
“Has it to do with those women on Willingham?” Malina reaches across the bench seat and rests one hand on Mr. Herze’s thigh. It’s the thing any wife would do. “Has it to do with the dead woman?”
“The police will see to it,” Mr. Herze says. “It’s of no concern to you.” With both hands on the steering wheel, he stares straight ahead at the back end of Malina’s car. “Is there truth to what he says?” His knuckles and the backs of his large hands are white from clutching the steering wheel. “Were you driving that night?”
“Why would I ever be out at such a late hour?”
Mr. Herze lets go of the steering wheel with one hand, pulls the lever to put the car into reverse, throws his arm over the seat back, and looks out the rear window. Malina looks too. The twins have reappeared on the porch and Bill Wagner stands between them.
“You’re quite certain,” Mr. Herze says, waving at Bill and the twins through his open window as the back of the car swings around and the front points down Alder Avenue.
Perhaps Malina should have told Mr. Herze the truth when he first asked. Yes, she was driving and she did see that ridiculous Jerry Lawson. And then a lie. It had been her night to deliver supper to the shut-ins and she’d forgotten. Yes, it was awfully late to be serving supper, but because she had felt so guilty for overlooking her responsibility, she took the food anyway. That’s the reason she drove down Alder that night. She wasn’t checking up on him or looking for the source of that nasty smell he brings into her house. But she hadn’t said any of those things. She’d lied, promised she’d been at home all evening, and it’s too late now for stories about shut-ins and supper trays. In answer to Mr. Herze’s question, Malina nods but doesn’t try to speak because her voice will crack and give her away. That’s another one of the things that always gets her in trouble.
“Very well,” Mr. Herze says, and throws the car into drive.
• • •
Mother came into Grace’s bedroom an hour ago, threw open the heavy curtains and white sheers she had closed the night before, and told Grace it was high time to get up. You’re feeling better, she said—a statement, not a question. No sense sleeping the day away. There’s food to be made and men to be fed. After taking Grace’s robe from the closet and laying it across Grace’s lap, Mother disappeared into the bathroom where she rummaged through the drawers. When she returned, she sat on the bed’s edge, dipped a small sponge into a heavy foundation, and dabbed at Grace’s cheek. After a few moments, Mother leaned back and lifted her face as if to get the best light. There must have been a red mark or possibly a bruise, but it was covered now and Mother said again for Grace to hustle herself on downstairs. Company was coming and it wouldn’t be fitting to sleep all day.
“Do you smell it?” Grace had said before Mother disappeared through the door.
Mother glanced at the open window but didn’t answer.
“The tobacco. The factories. Don’t you smell it?” Grace drew in a deep breath. “Do you remember them?”
The smell of damp tobacco, sweet and rich, floated across the city every morning of Grace’s childhood. When the weather was nice, she would wake beneath an open window and inhale, knowing the thick scent would be there. Many such factories stood then. Now, only a few.
“Don’t be silly,” Mother had said. “It’s the fireworks you smell. Time to get moving.”
At the bottom of the stairs, Grace holds on to the banister with one hand and rests the other on her stomach. It’s a habit, must be, because she doesn’t realize it’s there until a tiny foot, or maybe a knee, bumps her from the inside. All night, the baby was busy rolling and knocking about in Grace’s stomach. Now that Grace is awake, the baby will quiet down. The movement of Grace’s typical day—the comings and goings, hanging out the laundry, climbing the stairs, boarding the bus to Willingham—will calm the baby, soothe her. For the baby, all is unchanged and that’s enough to keep Grace on her feet.
There are voices coming from the kitchen. Two voices. Men. One is James, no mistaking that. The other is strained, barely clear. Grace stretches forward but doesn’t move her feet. Yes, that’s Mr. Symanski. Mother is whisking eggs in Grace’s frying pan and coffee bubbles up in the percolator. She is feeding Mr. Symanski. A pop. Toast popping up in the toaster. Two slices, slightly charred. They are always a bit overdone. Mother will scrape off the blackened crust with a serrated knife and dump the crumbs in the sink. Outside the house, car doors slam. A man shouts out to his wife, “Don’t forget the batteries.” It’s a reminder the search will go into the night.
“They are not saying what it means,” Mr. Symanski says. “They say it may be meaning nothing. They say only that she isn’t being found yet.”
A spatula scrapes the bottom of the skillet. Mother is dishing up the eggs. Forks clatter on the table. Chairs scoot across the tile. Grace leans on the banister, bracing herself. She knows Elizabeth is gone, even if the others don’t. Elizabeth didn’t wander off. He took her, that man, and she won’t ever come home.
“If it was being the river,” Mr. Symanski says and at this, his voice breaks. He starts again. “If she is being lost in the river, they may never be finding her.”
“What more did they tell you?” It’s James’s voice.
“They are having little hope. If she made her way that far, the people who are living there, the people who might have been seeing something, will not be caring to offer help. They are asking me where she would go. That is the only place she knew. The only place Ewa would take her.”
Water runs in the sink and the fresh scent of dish soap spills out of the kitchen into the living room, where Grace stands. Moving about as she sets the salt and pepper on the table, opens and closes the refrigerator, drops dirty dishes in the soapy water, Mother catches a glimpse of Grace.
“Come in here,” she says, leaning into the living room and waving Grace toward her. She jabs a single finger at Grace and then at the kitchen. She did the same when Grace was a child.
Grace wears nothing on her feet, so no one hears her until she clears her throat. With a shallow bow, she greets Mr. Symanski. Both men lift out of their chairs.
“Sit,” she says. “Please, sit. What can I get you, Charles?”
Mr. Symanski waves away the offer and Mother points at a chair so Grace will know to take a seat.
Glancing over her shoulder, Grace says, “I’m so very sorry. From in there, I overheard.”
James stands, pours Grace a cup of coffee, adds one sugar and a splash of cream. “You feeling better?�
�� With one finger, he raises her chin. “What’s this?”
Grace touches the small cut on her upper lip. The swollen spot is smooth and tender. She lays her other hand over James’s, squeezes it. Just as the relief of feeling her baby move made Grace cry, the warmth of James’s hand lifts her tears to the surface. She blinks them away.
“We bumped heads,” Mother says, sliding between Grace and James to place folded linens on the table. She finger-presses the fold in each as she positions it. “Last night. When I was pulling muffins from the oven. My fault really. You know how clumsy I can be.”
“Got you good,” James says.
“Please don’t fuss. Charles, are you getting plenty to eat? Mother, do you have seconds for him?”
“Your fever gone?” James says, brushing aside Grace’s hair and placing one hand on her forehead. “Feel cool. That’s good. But you look tired. Are you tired?”
The ache in her neck and shoulders makes Grace want to slouch forward and rest her arms on the table. She stretches and straightens her back so no one will notice. The baby stretches too. She’s settling in, getting comfortable. Grace draws her fingers across James’s cheek. It’s rough because he didn’t take the time to shave. Mother places a plate of eggs before Grace. James slides the salt and pepper toward her.
“It’s the heat,” Grace says, not knowing how long since James last spoke. “It wears me down.” She lifts one of the napkins Mother set out on the table, gives it a shake, and lets it float across James’s knee. Next, she drapes one across her own knee.
Turning his attention to Mr. Symanski, James lights a cigarette and rests both elbows on the table. What can he and Grace do? Does the rest of the family know yet? James would be happy to make a few calls before he leaves for the church. Mr. Symanski says there is no other family. There is no one. Mother leans in and whispers in Grace’s ear while the men talk.
“Start eating.”
Grace lifts her fork, twists it from side to side, studying it.
“I brought some things,” Mr. Symanski says. “You ladies are gathering clothes, yes?”
“For the thrift store,” Grace says.
“We put them in the garage.” James tilts his head back and blows out a stream of smoke. “Five or six bags, wouldn’t you say, Charles?”
“There is being six.”
“That’s fine,” Grace says. “I’ll see to them. Thank you. Thank you so much.”
Mr. Symanski exhales as if he feels lighter now. They must be Ewa’s things, clothes that have hung in the closet as painful reminders.
“The police will be coming soon,” Mr. Symanski says. “About the shoe.”
Grace drops her fork. It topples off the edge of the plate and comes to rest on the table.
Mother frowns and returns it to the plate’s rim. “They found a shoe,” she says to Grace. “Near the river.” Mother is letting Grace know it wasn’t her shoe they found. It was another.
“Didn’t intend to trouble you with it until you were feeling well,” James says.
“A shoe?” Grace says.
“We thought you might remember. It’s white with a soft rubber sole. Is that the type Elizabeth was wearing?”
“I am knowing I should remember,” Mr. Symanski says. “A father should be knowing, but I don’t know white shoes or black shoes or any other shoes. The police show me, but I am not knowing.”
“I’m not certain,” Grace says. “I would have to think about it.”
James rubs his cigarette into a small glass dish. “It’s not to concern yourself with now. The police will come. They’ll show you what they found.”
“What if my Elizabeth is being gone?” Mr. Symanski says, and chokes again. “Is that meaning she isn’t alone, isn’t frightened? Is that better?”
“Yes,” Grace says, blurting it out before she can stop herself. She can’t tolerate the thought of Elizabeth living in the aftermath of what those men, that man, surely did to her. “I mean, yes,” she says again. “Elizabeth knows she’s not alone, never alone.”
The skin under Mr. Symanski’s eyes hangs in deep crescent-shaped folds. He stares at Grace as if hoping she’ll say more.
Picking up her fork, Grace spears a small bit of her scrambled egg. “Elizabeth liked white sneakers. Wore them often,” she says, staring at the prongs of her fork. While the men came for Grace in her own home, they must have taken Elizabeth to the river and dumped her there. “As I remember, it troubled her when they got scuffed or dirty. Ewa would buy a new pair to make Elizabeth happy.” She smiles and touches Mr. Symanski’s hand. The loose skin is cold and dry. “Ewa would fuss as if those white sneakers were a bother, but she didn’t really mind them. Elizabeth has many pairs, doesn’t she?”
“You are thinking it was my Elizabeth’s shoe?”
Grace places the cold eggs into her mouth. They lie on her tongue. She swallows so she won’t gag.
“Yes,” Grace says. “I think, perhaps, it was her shoe.”
CHAPTER NINE
Julia and Bill pull into the church parking lot later than most. Bill shifts the car into park, turns off the ignition, and crosses his arms on the steering wheel. He leans forward, resting his head on his hands, and exhales loudly. Julia and the twins have barely seen him in the past few days. His cheeks look to have thinned out, though it hardly seems possible it’s happened in such a short time, and dark circles hang under his eyes.
“Today,” he says, rolling his head to the side so he can see Julia. “Today’s the day we find her.”
Directly in front of them, the rounded nose of an old gray Plymouth rolls up, and the driver’s-side door opens. Mr. Symanski pushes himself up and out of the car. Wearing a shirt and tie and a dark jacket that sags on his narrow shoulders, he shuffles no more than a few yards before one of the ladies glides up alongside him, takes hold of his arm, and escorts him to the front of one of two lines that snakes through the parking lot.
The lines are new this morning. As the neighbors and parishioners of St. Alban’s climb from their cars, they take their place at the end of one of them. Bill motions for Julia to do the same, while he joins the men gathered near the entrance to the church basement. Julia cradles in one arm the loaves of sweet bread she mixed up and baked this morning and takes her place at the back of the closest line.
All of the ladies, like Julia, are dressed in fitted jackets and tailored skirts. Already many are fanning themselves with old church bulletins and fussing about desserts that will spoil if forced to sit out in this rising heat. Julia glances at her watch. She promised the girls she would come home at lunchtime to grill them cheese sandwiches, but given the length of this line, she might still be waiting when noon rolls around, though for what, she isn’t sure.
“Why the holdup?” Julia asks the gentleman standing in the line next to her. She recognizes him and his wife from services but can’t remember their names.
“Taking names,” the man says. Without looking in Julia’s direction, he helps his wife slip off her peplum jacket.
“Who’s taking names? And for what purpose?” Julia hugs her sweet bread in hopes of keeping it warm. When she goes home at lunchtime, she’ll mix up four beef-and-corn casseroles to be baked at the church and served up for the men’s supper. She’ll definitely have to make a trip to the market tomorrow.
“Police,” the man’s wife says. A gold bobby pin has pulled loose at the nape of her neck and sparkles where it catches the light. “They’re recording who is here and who isn’t. They found her shoe, you know. Down by the river.”
Julia starts to ask why the police would do such a thing, but even though she doesn’t entirely understand, it’s clear enough they think who is or isn’t here might have some bearing on what did or did not happen to Elizabeth. It’s clear enough that had Elizabeth simply wandered off, the police would have no interest in who is or is not participating in the search.
The line doesn’t move as slowly as Julia had feared and when she reaches the front,
Bill rejoins her. Two police officers sit behind a metal table, thick binders opened up before them. One asks questions of Bill and Julia; the other, of the man and his wife. Bill answers, giving their name, address, and the names of their neighbors on either side. He answers yes without even a glimpse of his surroundings when asked if he recognizes everyone he sees and answers no when asked if he has seen any strangers joining in the search. He also points out the two latter questions are, in fact, the same question asked two different ways.
“That’s the point,” the officer says.
Julia leans around Bill. “The point to what?” she asks.
The officer ignores her and says, “Have any neighbors, friends, or relatives failed to include themselves?”
Again, taking no time to consider his answer, Bill says, “No.”
Next to Bill and Julia, the man and his wife scan the people who mill about before answering the same question.
“Jerry Lawson,” the woman says, finally tucking in the loose-hanging pin.
The other officer nods as if she is not the first to mention that name.
“What of Jerry Lawson?” Bill says, resting both hands on the table. Even hunched over, Bill is taller than the man.
“He is not here,” the woman says while her husband remains silent. “They asked who is not here, so we told them.”
“Why on earth would you take it upon yourself to mention the Lawsons?” Julia says. “They’re not neighbors of yours. If they were, you might recall they have only recently become parents.” She smiles at the officer. “A few weeks ago. We would never expect them to be here with a new baby at home.”
“Actually, they adopted,” the woman says. “And we have every right to mention Jerry Lawson. Everyone here knows of his troubles.”
“A new baby is a new baby,” Julia says, more loudly than she had intended. Ladies toting casserole dishes and covered pots and pans and gentlemen escorting the ladies by the arm stop to listen. Julia frowns at them and waves them on their way. “It doesn’t much matter where that sweet baby came from.” And then, because news of Jerry Lawson standing in the middle of Alder wearing little more than his undergarments while arguing with Warren Herze has obviously made its way to St. Alban’s, she turns to the officer and says, “This woman is spreading gossip, and it stinks so bad she might as well be spreading manure. She knows Jerry Lawson’s troubles have nothing to do with Elizabeth Symanski or this search.”
