Until She Comes Home

by Lori Roy

  Stumbling backward, Julia grabs for the doorknob to steady herself. They were here last night. After Julia made a mess of the kitchen. After James came. No, that was Wednesday. They were home Wednesday. And then Thursday. Bill and she argued that morning. She told him to keep his voice down. The girls were sleeping. Bill trapped Julia against the wall and she ordered him to go. And then the stolen tuna and the hammer and Elizabeth’s belt. That was last night. Did she fix them supper? Surely she fed them. But what did she prepare? And didn’t she see them to bed before falling asleep herself?

  She runs down the stairs and into the kitchen. Food overflows the trash can. The sour smell spills out into the living room and the foyer. There are only a few dirty dishes in the sink and dried-out strips of crust peeled from bread and slivers of SPAM—the girls’ favorite. Sandwiches they made for themselves.

  Back in the foyer, Julia fumbles through her address book until she finds the number, dials, and waits. She had not asked where Bill was going when he left, but he had no choice other than his brother’s house. Catherine answers. No, Bill isn’t here. No, she doesn’t know where he is, at work most likely, and yes, she’ll pass on the message when she hears from him. Call back as soon as there’s news. Julia hangs up the phone. The house is empty. Like Elizabeth Symanski, the twins are gone.

  • • •

  Malina stands in her garage, surrounded by the donations she has gathered from the ladies. She really should have done a better job sorting and delivering them as they arrived on her doorstep. Across the street, Julia Wagner walks out of her house, and from the end of her driveway, she shouts for those twins. She must be calling them home to lunch. Malina tosses aside the gentleman’s shirt she had been folding and steps out of the garage into the sunlight.

  Julia disappears inside and the street is quiet for a short while. She reappears, this time stumbling out the front door and down the drive. Her red hair hangs in her face and she wears a white cotton gown—her nightclothes. She begins to shout at the girls to come home. Over and over, she calls for them, her words stretching out to make room for her accent. Most days, Julia stands on her front porch and shouts at those girls as if calling home a dog. But something is different about her voice today. It’s strained, like she is nearly out of breath, and it’s pitched a bit higher, each word a bit rounder. That’s a scream. Yes, a person would call that a scream. Watching until Julia has disappeared back into her house, Malina runs inside, grabs her driving gloves and the car keys, and throws open the front door.

  Slowing the car as she reaches the intersection of Woodward and Willingham, Malina turns right and parks in front of Wilson’s Cleaners. The street is empty because it’s past lunchtime. All of the ladies have come and gone. In a few weeks, at this very hour on a Saturday afternoon, the street will fill with folding tables and chairs. People from all over the city will come to buy homemade baked goods. They will have only Malina to thank for it. How many hours has she spent planning where each table will sit, following up to make certain every lady has done her baking, even brewing and serving the fresh coffee herself?

  Once past Wilson’s Cleaners, Malina crosses Willingham and walks toward the factory. The men are back to work and the lot is full, but from the far side of the street, she’ll be able to see through all the cars, and among them, she’ll find Mr. Herze’s. It will be there. She’s certain of it. After those twins left the house yesterday, Malina had gathered up the clothing scattered across her lawn and followed Mr. Herze into the house. She promised him she had seen nothing, done nothing. He pushed her away, pulled on his hat, and left without another word. All night, he was gone, never came home to breakfast, and even when Malina left the house at well past noon, he had not yet come home. Surely he’s not the reason Julia stood at the end of her driveway, screaming and wearing her nightclothes.

  Malina hasn’t been to Nowack’s Bakery in several days. None of the ladies are shopping there anymore because she won’t close on payday. It’s odd, then, that the door stands open and the strong smell of sautéed onions seeps outside. With no customers, who would Mrs. Nowack be baking for? The fans are running, too. Another sign that Mrs. Nowack is baking. Malina intended to walk past without even glancing at the shop. She intended to slip around the corner and from there, watch the parking lot. She certainly never intended to go inside the bakery, but that carriage stood in the center of the store, where a person walking past couldn’t help but see it.

  She walks up the stairs that lead to the door and crosses inside. A small bell chimes. Straight ahead, the carriage’s black canopy is raised, and a yellow quilt lies across the bassinet. The canopy’s frame is twisted and the handle rusted. She moves closer, first sliding one foot across a white square tile and then another across a black tile.

  “You are coming to buy bread?” Mrs. Nowack says, walking out from the back room. Her gray skirt is dusted with flour and her cheeks are red and shiny.

  “I’m doing no such thing.”

  Malina inches closer to the carriage.

  Mrs. Nowack pushes aside the black curtain that leads to the back of the store. “Cassia,” she calls. “You are to be coming here to fetch this baby.”

  A girl—the girl—walks out from behind the curtain. Her black hands are coated with flour up to her wrists and she wears a small white apron around her waist. She stops when she sees Malina.

  “It’s too hot out back,” the girl says, staring at Malina. “You said my baby shouldn’t be back there.”

  “You are to be taking her,” Mrs. Nowack says. “And you, if you are not buying, you are leaving.”

  Malina takes another step toward the carriage, the narrow heel of her shoe tapping the floor. “I’ll do no such thing,” she says.

  The girl is smaller even than she appeared the other night walking down a dark street. She rests her tiny hands on the carriage’s handle and pulls it toward her. Her face is like a doll’s; her shoulders and hips, slight. There must be an odor to her, like the one Malina washes from Mr. Herze’s shirts, but Malina can’t smell it over the onions and butter. With the carriage in hand, the girl backs toward the curtain, her feet so small and light they move silently. This girl wasn’t supposed to be the mother. The other woman—the larger one with rounded, full hips and thick legs—she was supposed to be the mother. But here is this girl, Mr. Herze’s girl, pulling on a carriage that carries Mr. Herze’s baby.

  As if she belongs in this place, Grace Richardson walks out from the back room, a large white pastry box in hand.

  “We have a good start, Mrs. Nowack.” She stops when she sees Malina and sets the box on the counter as if hoping Malina didn’t see her carrying it.

  “I want to see inside that carriage,” Malina says.

  Grace reaches out with one bare hand and touches the girl’s arm. She touches that girl as if they know each other. She touches that girl as if they care for each other.

  “We’re nearly done back there,” Grace says to the girl. “It’s not so hot anymore.”

  “I want to see under that quilt,” Malina says.

  The girl tilts her small face and studies Malina. She is probably remembering Malina from a picture, perhaps the one on Mr. Herze’s desk. The girl shakes her head.

  “I gave it back,” the girl says. “I already gave it back.”

  “Stop talking your gibberish.” Malina stomps one white heel. “I’ve a right to look in that carriage.”

  “I already gave that hammer back,” the girl says again.

  Grace crosses in front of the girl and pushes the carriage behind her. “This is of no interest to you, Malina,” she says. And then, leaning forward so she can whisper, Grace says, “I promise you, it’s of no concern to you.”

  “Of course it’s of no concern to me,” Malina says, and backs toward the door, but she stops when she notices the white box sitting on the counter. “Those are not pierogi, are they, Grace Richardson? I couldn’t imagine you’d let these women prepare food we are to eat. You hav
e them do your cooking, and you leave your mending to me? It’s shameful.”

  Grace was going to be Malina’s friend. She and James were going to come to supper and then she would call Malina for coffee and they might spend afternoons chatting together while the baby slept. Malina would bring sweet baby clothes as gifts and Grace would be her friend.

  “You, Grace Richardson, are shameful.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  At the picnic table behind the bakery, Grace sits and, with white thread and a needle, reattaches a button to one of the dresses Mr. Symanski left in her garage. It’s the perfect excuse to stay a bit longer. She sits quietly, has for several minutes, so the baby has woken and is kicking and rolling. In between stitches, Grace rests a hand on her stomach to feel a small foot or knee. Each time she does, Cassia reaches out and lays her hand alongside Grace’s.

  After Malina stomped out of the bakery, Cassia and the other women had worked silently to clean up from the pierogi, and because Mrs. Nowack had no more cooking or baking for them to do, they set to work on Grace’s mending. Sitting opposite Grace, Sylvie and Lucille each hold a dress close to their noses, squinting as they poke a needle through the fabric and pull it out the other side. Every so often, they hold up their dresses by the shoulders, swing them from side to side, and show off their work. Sitting next to Grace, Cassia rocks her carriage. Her motion carries through the wooden seat. Julia once said, before Maryanne died, that a woman rocks a baby in time to her own heart. That’s what Grace feels—Cassia’s heartbeat.

  “Who these dresses belong to?” Sylvie asks.

  Grace runs her fingers across the buttons on the bodice of the dress resting in her lap.

  “Elizabeth,” she says.

  “If you’re giving them away,” Cassia says, still rocking, “why you fixing them?”

  “It’s the right thing to do.”

  Cassia shrugs and Sylvie and Lucille carry on with their mending. Sylvie works a needle as quickly and smoothly as Grace’s own mother. Lucille struggles to reattach the buttons, shouting out every so often when she pokes herself.

  “Do you know Malina Herze?” Grace asks, tugging on the cuff of one of Elizabeth’s dresses. She doesn’t look at any of them as she asks the question. “Before she came here today, did you know her?”

  Sylvie sets aside her needle and thread, folds the dress over one arm. “Yeah, we know her. Know she causes trouble for Mrs. Nowack.”

  “Does she cause any other trouble?”

  “Person causes one kind of trouble,” Lucille says, biting through a strand of thread, “they bound to cause another.”

  “You should stay away from her, Cassia.”

  Cassia squirms on her seat. “I gave it back,” she says. “No one should be giving me any trouble. I kept it with me at first, but I gave it back.”

  “The hammer?” Grace says. “Are you talking about a hammer?” She pauses, waiting for an answer. “Why did you have Malina’s hammer? Who did you give it to?”

  “I found it,” Cassia says. “And I returned it.”

  “She didn’t do no such thing,” Lucille says. She flicks her eyes toward the carriage and winks at Grace. “Cassia is confused, is all. She didn’t have no hammer. She just gets herself confused.” Having finished her work, Lucille passes the lavender dress to Grace and reaches into the brown bag for another. The beads on her thin braids rattle as she moves. “Will the ladies come back now? Will they come shopping here again?”

  “I’m sorry,” Grace says, holding the dress by its shoulders so she can inspect it. “But I don’t think so.”

  She gives the dress a shake, irons it flat with her hands, and fingers the lace collar. Elizabeth used to scratch and tug at her neckline whenever she wore the dress, but she never asked to take it off. Birthdays and Easter. It was always her favorite. And every year, twice a year, Ewa would bend and straighten her fingers and complain about the dress’s tiny buttons and stiff lace. Lifting the dress to her face, Grace inhales. It smells of Elizabeth, a light, sweet scent, the same as Ewa.

  “The first day I came here, you mentioned a woman. I think her name was Tyla.” Grace hugs Elizabeth’s dress. “She was the woman who was killed here, wasn’t she?”

  The women look among themselves but say nothing.

  “You must have known her. You must miss her.”

  “Ain’t no one missing Tyla,” Cassia says.

  Sylvie lays a hand on Cassia’s shoulder. “She was mean as a snake, that’s for sure.”

  “Both of you, hush.” It’s Lucille. With one eye closed, she is trying to thread a needle with blue thread. “No one needs to talk about that.” The thread finds its way through the eye of the needle and Lucille looks at Grace. “No need to talk about that,” she says again.

  Grace folds Elizabeth’s dress in half and then in half again. “Stay away from Malina,” Grace says to Cassia.

  Grace will have to return to Alder Avenue soon. She’ll stop at Julia’s and apologize for having not visited earlier. It’s time to go home.

  “As best you can, stay away.”

  • • •

  Standing in Julia’s kitchen, tugging on their thick belts and tapping their heavy boots, the police don’t understand. How could they? No, Bill isn’t here. He’s been gone since yesterday morning. Julia doesn’t know where. She called his brother’s house. They’ll tell him when they see him. He wasn’t at work, either. When did she last see the girls? She can’t remember. They don’t understand why she can’t remember. Julia must have cooked the girls something for supper. The mess in the kitchen is nothing. It was an accident. She tipped over the garbage. Yes, Julia must have cooked them supper, must have seen them to bed after they took a bath and washed their hair, but she can’t remember.

  The officer with brown hair scribbles with a yellow pencil. His name is Thompson. He’s the man who counted out eight houses and told Julia she probably didn’t see quite as much as she thought she saw the day Elizabeth disappeared. He was the first to know it was Julia’s fault Elizabeth would never come home.

  “Their bedroom?” he asks, and both men follow Julia upstairs.

  This is where they sleep. Arie in the yellow. Izzy in the blue. Julia always tidies up for Izzy. She isn’t so handy making a bed. But not today. It was already done so nicely. Julia begins to cry. She tells them that yesterday Izzy tricked her and snuck away to Beersdorf’s. The officers already know this. They’ll keep checking the streets between here and there, but so far, no sign of either girl.

  Walking down the stairs, one of the officers holds Julia by the elbow so she won’t stumble. At the landing, she looks through the front door that stands open. Out on Alder Avenue, people are coming and going. No one bothers to close the door.

  There was a belt and stolen tuna and the hammer. The girls came home with a hammer. They stole it from a neighbor’s yard. Malina Herze’s yard. Julia scolded them. She ordered them to return it and apologize. She must have insisted, because why wouldn’t she? Yes, now she remembers. They did try to take it back. They came home a few minutes later and said Mr. Herze didn’t want the hammer. He said it wasn’t his and a man would know his own hammer, but he took it anyway. If Warren Herze was home, it must have been after five. Five thirty or so. That’s it. She last saw them shortly after five o’clock. Yesterday. No, Bill wasn’t home. Yes, he was gone all night.

  Soon enough, porch lights will glow up and down the street and stray beams of light, cast off from flashlights, will dart around side yards and throw their glare on picture windows. Everyone is remembering Elizabeth Symanski and hoping this doesn’t turn out the same.

  • • •

  When the two officers have made their way down Julia’s sidewalk and it’s apparent they are headed to Malina’s house, she walks back into the dining room and picks a carrot from the bunch lying on the table. Its leafy greens are a beautiful deep shade, not yet drooping or turning brown. The orange color is uniform from top to bottom. Suitable for one of h
er cakes. Behind her, in the kitchen, the side door creaks. Mr. Herze must have left it ajar. So odd he would go directly into the garage when arriving home early from work. Malina had watched him through the kitchen window. Wearing a shirt and tie and his best leather shoes, he walked from his car in through the garage’s side door. When he reappeared seconds later, Malina hurried back into the living room. He entered the house through the door off the kitchen, rushed past Malina, and as he climbed the stairs two at a time, he called out that he’d be taking up with the search party. When he came back down the stairs, red faced and panting and moving slower than he had on the way up, he wore brown slacks, a weekend shirt, and the shoes he normally wore when mowing the lawn. He left the house through the front door.

  Shifting her attention back to the carrot, Malina rolls it from side to side, grabs the grater with her left hand, and begins to scrub the carrot over its tiny blades. Through her front window, she has been watching the ladies gather at the ends of their driveways. There is no reason for anyone to suspect Mr. Herze, no reason Malina should. Had she bothered to walk a few yards past the bakery, she would have seen his sedan parked in its usual spot. But in the end, she hadn’t seen the need. She left the bakery, marched to her car, and drove straight home.

  It meant nothing to see that girl with the carriage. Any one of a dozen men could be the father of that child. Any one of a dozen women could be its mother. But there was the look the girl and Grace Richardson gave Malina. They both looked kindly upon Malina, their eyelids heavy, their lips slightly parted. They inhaled as if preparing to speak but not quite knowing the best words to use. They had looked at Malina with pity. With pity, for goodness sake.

  Outside, the men and ladies continue to shout up and down the street. They leave their groups and spread out, disappearing around houses and down the block. It will do no good. If the twins were anywhere near, they would have heard the first call, and while their manners are atrocious, they generally come running when Julia calls. Still, from far away, and somewhat closer and as close as the next yard over, people shout out to those twins. Malina hears their calls through the mesh screen in her open dining-room window. Arie. Izzy. Or Arabelle. Isabelle. At the sound of a knock, Malina sets down the carrot, wipes her hands on her apron, and opens the door.