Until She Comes Home

by Lori Roy

  Julia gives Grace one last nudge. “But it feels good, doesn’t it, to laugh?”

  The bus continues toward Willingham Avenue. The morning air, light and almost crisp, blows through the open windows. Outside the bus, cars drive past, most of them with their windows rolled down. The ladies in those cars hold the steering wheel at ten and two and wear sheer scarves—yellow, pink, or white—folded in half, draped over their hair and tied under their chins. At the stoplights, the men rest an elbow on the doorframe and hang their lit cigarettes out the window. As the bus nears downtown, the cars stack up deeper at each stoplight and the buildings rise higher on both sides of Woodward, narrowing the street. The smell of river water pushes aside the smell of freshly clipped grass and concrete just hosed down. At the intersection of Woodward and Willingham, the bus slows. The air settles.

  “Come with me to the cleaners?” Julia says, standing once the bus has stopped.

  Grace shakes her head and slides back down onto the seat. “I’m not feeling well. I have enough in my freezer to get by. I think I’ll take the bus back home.”

  Julia stretches over the seat to lay a hand on Grace’s forehead. “James mentioned you’d been feeling poorly. No fever.” She straightens. “Get some rest. I’ll call later, stop by before I go to the church.”

  Julia slips into the aisle behind Malina Herze and plugs her nose as if smelling the urine from Malina’s flowerbeds. Again Grace resists the urge to smile. She lifts a hand to wave good-bye but quickly lowers it so no one will notice she forgot her gloves. Even before the bus has pulled away toward its last stop, where it will turn around to drive back up Woodward, Grace knows she’ll not come on the morning bus again. She can’t see the others because she is so changed. The other ladies are changed too, but not in a lasting way. Already they are easing back to a normal life, a life that won’t include Elizabeth Symanski. But Grace won’t ease back, and eventually they’ll notice. Eventually, they’ll want to know why.

  Julia will be the first, maybe the only one, to raise questions with Grace. The others will be too polite, just as they’re too polite to mention an unfortunate lipstick color. They’ll assume it’s a private matter, perhaps a problem in Grace’s marriage or bad news regarding the baby, and they’ll be caring but distant because they won’t want Grace’s troubles to rub off on them. Julia, however, won’t concern herself with privacy or contagious problems. She’ll ask questions, many questions. She’ll be bold and persistent. She’ll come to Grace’s house, sweep the floors, wring the laundry, cook the meals. She’ll want to do the things Grace did for Julia when her daughter died. She’ll want to nurse Grace until she is well again. Julia will be a constant reminder that Grace’s life will never again be as it once was.

  “Is there an afternoon bus to Willingham?” Grace calls up to the driver after the door has closed.

  The bus pops and hisses and continues down Woodward.

  Speaking to Grace through the rearview mirror, the driver says, “Twelve fifteen at Alder. That your street?”

  “Thank you,” she says. “That’ll be fine.”

  • • •

  Aunt Julia won’t be home for hours. She’s off shopping with the other ladies, and that will keep her away all morning. Still, Izzy and Arie twice look up and down the street because it wouldn’t do for one of Aunt Julia’s friends to catch them outside. From somewhere north of Alder Avenue, a round of firecrackers explodes, one shooting off right on top of another. Grandma says they start earlier and earlier every year, and isn’t that a shame. Those firecrackers are like a starting pistol, and clutching a cold, wet bottle against her stomach, Izzy gives a wave and she and Arie take off running through the side yard that cuts between the Turners’ and Brandenbergs’ houses. The girls hit the alley and their feet slip in the dry dirt and kick up clouds of dust. They keep running even though their throats are dry and they need to spit and their legs are tired from going all the way to Beersdorf’s Grocery and back.

  Izzy would have thought Arie would run all the way to Aunt Julia’s because she’s scared of the alley now, but something makes her shorten her stride, slow, and eventually stop. Straight ahead, a few yards past Mrs. Richardson’s garage, Mr. Schofield’s rusted old chair and sawed-off piece of wood sit in the middle of the alley. No sign of rusted old Mr. Schofield.

  The girls had been halfway to Beersdorf’s Grocery before Arie realized where they were going. Izzy told her no one was twisting her arm and she could go on back home if she wanted. She knew Arie wasn’t brave enough for that, so they walked the rest of the way to Beersdorf’s, one block west and three blocks south, all the while watching for men who might be searching for Elizabeth. Every time they saw a car coming, they ducked behind a clump of bushes or the trunk of an elm. “Why bother walking all the way to Beersdorf’s when we don’t have any money?” Arie had said when they were halfway there. But money wasn’t the thing that kept Arie from wanting to go to Beersdorf’s.

  Besides being afraid of the back alley, which seemed to make Arie afraid of everything, she didn’t want to go to Beersdorf’s because Aunt Julia didn’t shop there anymore. Arie figured there must be a good reason. Grandma always says there’s no moss growing under Aunt Julia and she wouldn’t do something, or not do something, without a good reason. Not too long ago, Aunt Julia did shop at Beersdorf’s and only took the bus to Willingham once or twice a week. Beersdorf’s couldn’t have turned into a bad place in such a short time. That’s what Izzy thought. Arie thought it didn’t take long at all for things to turn bad. Just look at a banana.

  Slipping the Royal Crown under her shirt had been easy for Izzy. Mr. Beersdorf was more interested in the Negroes standing outside his shop than he was in keeping an eye on two girls. Loitering. That’s what people called what those Negroes were doing. Arie was more interested in those Negroes too. She was even scared of them, keeping both eyes on them the whole time they were in the store. She didn’t know a Royal Crown was tucked under Izzy’s shirt until they were down the street and around the corner and headed toward home. Several times during the walk back, Arie said, “How are you going to open that stolen bottle of pop?” Standing now in the middle of the alley and seeing the Richardsons’ garage door is wide open, and not wanting old Mr. Schofield to catch them breaking Aunt Julia’s rules, Izzy knows exactly how she’ll open this bottle of pop.

  The Richardsons’ house is quiet. No sign of Mrs. Richardson or anyone else. Even though none of the ladies of Alder are working at the church this morning because it’s their turn to catch up on things around the house, they’ll all be on the bus to Willingham with Aunt Julia or down in their basements running their laundry through a wringer. Across the alley at Mr. Schofield’s house, a screen door squeals and slaps shut. The colored men have a schedule. That’s what Aunt Julia and Uncle Bill said. Not that it’s a dependable schedule, but worth knowing all the same. They like to catch the 10:00 a.m. bus, at least a few of them, as if they might have a job. They’re back again for the 5:15. No telling what goes on in the middle of the night. But be mindful, that’s what Uncle Bill said. Mr. Schofield must know about the schedule too.

  Holding the wet bottle that isn’t so cold anymore against her stomach, Izzy yanks Arie toward the open garage. She follows for a few steps and then pulls away.

  “I’m not going in there,” Arie says, keeping her voice low in case those are Mr. Schofield’s footsteps.

  “Would you rather get a whipping from him?” Izzy points at the rusted old folding chair and gives Arie another yank.

  Once inside the garage, the air is instantly cooler. They stand motionless, both of them holding their breath so they can hear better. No one shouts at them for being where they don’t belong. Izzy points toward the back of the garage, and once she’s sure there is no piece of wood tapping across the gravel outside, she walks to the wooden bench straight ahead and flips open the lid on Mr. Richardson’s toolbox. The musty smell and the gritty tools, which are mostly heavier than Izzy would h
ave thought they would be, make her think about fathers and the things they keep and don’t keep around the house. She doesn’t know anything about fathers, but she does know the large tool that opens and closes wide enough to grab a bottle cap is called a pair of pliers. Yes, a pair of pliers should work real good.

  “Have a seat,” she whispers to Arie. “I’ll have this open in no time.”

  The tangy smell of fireworks has followed them into the garage. It’s growing stronger, as if someone close is shooting them off.

  “I’m not drinking any of that stolen pop,” Arie says. She slips far enough into the garage that no one will be able to see her, crosses her arms over her chest like she’s hugging herself, and sinks into the rough wooden wall.

  Izzy wrenches off the cap, takes a long drink, coughing because the bubbles swell up in her throat, and says, “Suit yourself.” She takes another drink, holds up the bottle to check how much is left, and from the middle of the garage she points at the south wall. “Look there,” she says. “We could use that.”

  Walking across the dirt floor, Izzy shivers, maybe from the cooler air or maybe from the stolen pop racing through her veins, and lifts a length of rope from the hook where it hangs. She can almost taste the smoke in the air now.

  “Could be a leash for Patches,” she says, starting to take another drink but stopping because her stomach doesn’t feel so good.

  “You stealing rope now too?” Arie asks, and smiles because she knows Izzy’s stomach hurts. “Don’t bother. That’s way too big for a cat.”

  “Yeah,” Izzy says, watching for any sign of Mr. Schofield. “You’re probably right. Good jump rope, though.”

  “Now, this would make a good leash.” Arie slides a few more feet into the garage and nudges whatever it is with her toe as though testing to see if it’s alive.

  Izzy tosses the rope over one shoulder and joins her. “What is it?” she says. The smell of something burning grows stronger as Izzy walks toward Arie. It’s probably the boys who live a block past Tuttle Avenue. Aunt Julia says boys who grow up find trouble to stir up. Before Izzy and Arie climbed into Uncle Bill’s car, their suitcases already stowed in the trunk, Grandma had pointed at Izzy and told her not to get any ideas about boys. She jabbed her finger twice, even poking Izzy in the chest the second time, and said it again. We won’t have any accidents in this house, Grandma had said. And when she asked if Izzy understood, she nodded even though she hadn’t.

  “Looks like old clothes and things,” Arie says. “Must be Mrs. Richardson’s stuff.”

  Reaching into one of the bags, Arie pulls out a thin white belt. Tiny pink and white jewels cover the small round buckle. She threads one end of the belt through the buckle and pulls it until the belt is the size of a cat’s neck. “It’s perfect,” she says in a loud voice.

  Izzy leaps forward and slaps a hand over Arie’s mouth. They stand still and listen. A few quiet moments pass. No sign of Mr. Schofield. Izzy drops her hand from Arie’s mouth.

  “Sorry,” Arie whispers.

  Izzy tilts her head and raises her brows at Arie. Usually, Arie is the one giving this look to Izzy. “How come it’s okay for you to steal?” Izzy asks as she walks over to the six brown bags lined up against the wall, where Mr. Richardson won’t hit them with his car. “But not okay for me?” She pulls out a blouse by its sleeve and lets it float back into the bag.

  “It’s not stealing. She’s throwing all this out. It’s with the trash.”

  Both girls stop talking and Izzy crosses a finger over her lips. On the other side of the garage, something creaks, like the old metal legs of an old rusted folding chair groaning under the weight of an old Mr. Schofield. Placing one foot directly in front of the other because that’s the quietest way, Izzy walks toward the back of the garage and presses an ear to the cool wall. Hearing nothing more and forgetting her upset stomach, she takes another drink but the Royal Crown has turned warm. They’ll have to peek outside to see if Mr. Schofield is sitting in his chair. If he is, they could be stuck here until suppertime.

  “This must have fallen out of one of the bags.” Izzy whispers loudly enough for only Arie to hear and stoops to pick up a lady’s white dress shoe from the dirt floor. Letting it dangle from one finger, she holds it up to inspect it in better light and to give Arie a good look at it.

  “That shoe is lots bigger than the ones in the bags.” Arie moves closer, but not too close. “And it’s almost new. It’s Mrs. Richardson’s.”

  “They’re all Mrs. Richardson’s,” Izzy says, scanning the dirt floor for a spot to dump the rest of the pop.

  “But this one is bigger. Pregnant women buy bigger shoes. This shoe isn’t supposed to be garbage.”

  “What does pregnant have to do with anything?”

  “Don’t you remember Aunt Julia’s feet? Remember how spongy they got?” Arie waves a hand in front of her face, obviously smelling the same nasty smoke Izzy smells. “Remember how we went to Hudson’s and she bought big shoes? This is one of Mrs. Richardson’s big pregnant shoes.”

  Izzy remembers going to Hudson’s but shakes her head anyway. She doesn’t like thinking about anything that has to do with Maryanne. They visited once and the baby was there, filling up Aunt Julia’s house. When they visited again, she was gone, and the house has been empty ever since, hollow even.

  “Well, we can’t ask her if it’s hers,” Izzy says, being careful to whisper, but it’s hard to do when she gets this annoyed with Arie. “Better put it back with the others.” She rubs the shoe against her shirt, buffing off the dirt, and tosses it toward Arie.

  Never one to easily catch a ball, Arie lunges, reaches out, but the shoe sails past her and she falls into one of Mr. Richardson’s garbage cans. The lid topples off and a cloud of smoke erupts from the silver can and rolls up into the air.

  Arie slaps a hand over her mouth, and Izzy drops her pop bottle.

  “The lid,” Izzy whispers, jabbing a finger at the lid lying on the ground, but then waves Arie off. “No, stop. It’ll be hot.” Grabbing a skirt from one of the bags, Izzy wraps it around her hand, picks up the lid by its edge, and tosses it toward the can. It misses, bouncing off the rim and landing near Arie’s feet.

  “You better come on out of there,” a voice shouts.

  It’s Mr. Schofield. The girls flap their arms at the rising smoke and back away from the growing flame.

  “Got myself a rifle out here,” Mr. Schofield shouts.

  Izzy grabs Arie. “It’s us, Mr. Schofield,” she says, hugging Arie to her. “Mr. Schofield, it’s just us.”

  Even though Izzy can’t see Mr. Schofield, can only hear him, she knows he’ll be walking with a limp, almost dragging his right leg as if that side of his body is heavier than the other. One shoulder will be sagging forward and his jowls will be drooping. They wobble when he walks or talks. It’s the polio he had as a child, Aunt Julia once told them. It never quite leaves a person and now it’s eating him away from the inside out. She says Izzy and Arie are lucky they’ll never have to worry about ending up like Mr. Schofield.

  “Come on out,” Mr. Schofield shouts again. “I smell your goddamned fire.”

  “No, Mr. Schofield. It’s us. It’s us.”

  “Goddamn you and your fire.”

  Izzy pulls Arie deeper into the garage, into the farthest, darkest corner. “It’s us, Mr. Schofield. It’s Arie and Izzy.”

  But Mr. Schofield doesn’t hear.

  “Come on out or I start firing.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Once off the bus, Malina hurries across Willingham while the other ladies linger to stare at the warehouse. Positioned squarely at the T-junction where Willingham Avenue dead-ends into Chamberlin, the white stone building stands three stories high. Its windowsills are chipped and crumbling as if it’s sinking into the footings, and the doorways are boarded over. This is where those Negro women gather to show themselves to the husbands. Some say the women strip themselves of their blouses and undergarments
so the men will want them more.

  The ladies stare only for a moment, their lips puckered and their arms crossed, and then they remember their real concern should be for Elizabeth and not the Negro women or what the husbands may be up to. Reminding themselves of the finer things in life, they tug at their gloves, check the clasps on their handbags, smooth their curls, and head off to the deli or the cleaners or the drugstore. In twenty minutes, they’ll all meet at the bakery. On the bus ride over, the ladies agreed that if Mrs. Nowack insisted on keeping her doors open on payday, they’d be patrons no longer. Together, in twenty minutes’ time, this is what they’ll tell Mrs. Nowack.

  Next door to the warehouse, the factory’s parking lot is only half full. Most of the men, Mr. Herze included, have gathered again at the church. Once Malina is certain Mr. Herze’s sedan is not among the cars parked there, she swivels on one heel and walks toward the river. For the next twenty minutes, the ladies will scurry from store to store. They’ll not notice Malina’s whereabouts. Twenty minutes is certainly enough time. If Mr. Herze’s girl is still alive, a block or so down Chamberlin is where Malina will likely find her.

  “I’m quite certain it’s true,” Doris Taylor had said after the ladies of Alder Avenue boarded the bus. She sat on the edge of her seat and spoke loudly so her voice would carry over the air rushing through the open windows. “Mrs. Nowack has no intention of closing her doors on payday. What are we to do?”

  Though it was Doris who spoke, the ladies scooted about in their seats to look to Malina. It was a reminder she was one of the oldest among them.

  “I really haven’t any opinion,” Malina had said.

  The ladies, a few with their mouths dangling open, stared at Malina, waiting, obviously thinking she had spoken in jest. Again, resenting the ladies for thrusting her into a matronly position, Malina snapped her own mouth shut so the ladies might realize their rude behavior and flicked a hand at them, urging them to turn away.