Until She Comes Home (12 page)

“Orin,” Grace shouts. “Put that away.”

Walking in a wide arch that keeps her far from the open garage and clear of Orin’s aim, Grace waves away the smell of the smoke. She used to close the garage door for James every morning. After he’d leave for work, she would finish washing the breakfast dishes and then wander through the backyard, maybe pulling a weed or two, watering her bushes, snapping off her marigolds’ brown, withered blossoms, and eventually close the garage door. She didn’t follow him this morning, might never follow him again.

“Who is it?” Grace shouts into the garage. “Who’s in there?”

The girls appear, one dragging the other by the arm. That’s Izzy in front and Arie trailing behind.

“We didn’t do it,” Izzy says, moving away from the black smoke.

The rising column has thinned. Orange sparks flutter into the air and die out.

“It’s the trash can,” Izzy says. “It’s a fire in the trash can.”

“Orin,” Grace shouts again, waving the girls toward her. “Put that gun away. Girls, here. Come here. Orin, it’s Izzy and Arie.”

Orin stands on the other side of the smoky cloud. He taps the side of the garage with the barrel of his rifle. “Come on out,” he shouts. “Come out of that goddamned garage.”

“Orin, please.” Grace gathers the twins under the maple. She runs her hands over their arms, cups the face of each and scans them for any sign they’ve been hurt. “Stay here,” she says, pushing away Arie’s hand when she tries to grab Grace by the arm.

The crack of the rifle makes Grace stumble. She grabs for the baby. An instinct. Next she reaches for the girls. They run to her, together scooping Grace, one on each side. Another shot. Grace is back on her feet. She corrals the girls, pulls them close. They huddle together under the hard maple, all three inhaling what the others exhale. As the silence widens, Grace straightens to her full height. She brushes back the girls hair, checks them over again. One of the girls, Izzy because Arie wouldn’t be so bold, hugs Grace’s stomach and presses an ear over the baby.

On the other side of the alley, Mr. Williamson stomps out his side door and across his backyard but slows when he sees Orin, a gun to his shoulder, his cheek resting against the wooden handle. Though he no longer has a job to go to, Mr. Williamson dresses every morning in a shirt and tie, belted trousers, and his calfskin wingtips. His silver hair is as thick as the day Grace met him and is smoothed back and held in place by a hair dressing. Probably Top Brass, the same as James uses. Mrs. Williamson follows her husband, but stops near her clothesline. As always, a blue scarf covers her thinning white hair, and the bib apron hanging loosely from her neck has been left untied at the waist. Mr. Williamson stops short of reaching Orin and doesn’t move any closer until the gun’s barrel begins to sink.

“What are you shooting at there, Orin?” Mr. Williamson says.

“Someone’s in there.” Orin waves the gun’s narrow tip at the garage. He stumbles as if he’s dizzy. His eyes settle on Grace and the twins, all three still standing in a cluster, their arms intertwined. His cheeks and nose are red. He brushes away sweat that drips down his temples. “Look at that right there.” He stabs the gun toward the garage, stumbles again. “I told you, didn’t I? Those two started a fire.”

The smoke coming from the garage has thinned to little more than a trickle. Mr. Williamson takes another few steps toward Orin.

“Think whoever stirred up this trouble is long gone by now,” Mr. Williamson says. “How about you let me have that gun of yours?”

“I heard them. Heard them tossing things about.” Orin swings around to face Grace and the twins. The rifle swings around too. “You done this,” he says. “You two girls.”

Izzy starts to say something, but Grace gives her a squeeze, silencing her.

“I seen it with my own eyes,” Orin says, shaking his head as if clearing his thoughts.

“Say, why not let me take a look at this for you,” Mr. Williamson says as he edges up next to Orin, then lays one flat palm on the gun’s barrel and slowly forces it toward the ground. “You know I clean all my own guns.” When the barrel’s tip points directly at the ground, Mr. Williamson eases the gun from Orin. “I’ll give it a good once-over and get it back to you lickety-split. Even bring one of Martha’s cobblers when I return it.”

Orin stares at the gun as it passes into Mr. Williamson’s hands.

When the gun is safely with Mr. Williamson, Izzy shakes loose of Grace and looks her straight in the eye. “We didn’t do anything. We didn’t start that fire. I promise. Please, you can’t tell Aunt Julia. We didn’t, I promise.”

“You two set that fire at my place. Broke my goddamned windows, too.”

“No, that’s not true,” Izzy says. “None of that’s true. We wanted to hide, that’s all. We saw Mr. Schofield’s chair in the alley and didn’t want him to catch us. Right, Arie? Isn’t that true? Please, Mrs. Richardson. Don’t tell.”

“It’s the coloreds, then,” Orin says, pushing Mr. Williamson aside so he can see down the alley. “Every day, they’re coming through here. Coloreds starting fires and breaking windows.”

Grace grabs one of the twins, takes no time to decide which one. “Did you see them?” she says.

The girl’s eyes shine and she tries to pull away, but Grace squeezes tighter. Arie. The other twin, Izzy, grabs at Grace’s arm to drag her away.

“Did you see those men?” Grace shouts.

With both hands, Izzy pulls at Grace’s arm. “We didn’t see anyone, Mrs. Richardson. We didn’t see anyone and we didn’t start any fire.”

“I suppose it’s best we all calm ourselves,” Mr. Williamson says. “Let’s not look to stir up trouble we don’t need. How about we get you home, Orin?”

“By God, I’m not going anywhere,” Orin says. “My chair. Sit me down right there.”

“Why don’t you ladies go on inside,” Mr. Williamson says. He winks in Grace’s direction and tugs at his tie though it doesn’t need straightening. “I’ll see that the fire is out. Doesn’t appear any harm’s been done.”

Grace loosens her grip on Arie. “I’m so sorry,” she says, rubbing the red spot on Arie’s slender shoulder. “Come, girls.” She wraps an arm around each, nods her thanks to Mr. and Mrs. Williamson, and walks the twins to the side of the house. She’ll take them inside, wash their faces with a cool cloth, call Julia to come fetch them. She should probably feed them something, a peanut-butter sandwich, and give them milk to drink. Someone may call the police. They may come and look inside her garage.

“We’re fine, Mrs. Richardson,” Izzy says, reaching for Arie’s hand and yanking her away from the stairs leading into Grace’s kitchen. “We’ll go home now, straight home.”

“We should wait for your aunt. I can’t let you go alone.”

Izzy continues to pull Arie down the driveway toward the street.

“She’s out shopping. We’re fine. We’ll go straight home. We didn’t start that fire, Mrs. Richardson. I promise we didn’t.”

“I’ll walk with you,” Grace says.

“No,” Izzy says, holding up one hand to stop Grace from following. “Straight home, I promise.”

Arie says nothing and every time Grace looks her way, she drops her eyes or looks off to the side. While Izzy is clearly afraid of what Julia will have to say should she find out the twins disobeyed her, Arie is frightened of something else. It’s almost as if she is frightened of Grace.

“Please,” Izzy says one more time. “Please don’t tell.”

Grace lifts a hand and points. “Straight home, you two. And until Elizabeth is found, please stay there.”

A
rie and Izzy run all the way to Aunt Julia’s house, not once looking back at Mrs. Richardson. They drop the length of rope on the front porch, flip off their sneakers at the back door, and run through the kitchen and up the stairs, even though running is not allowed in the house. They toss the slender, jeweled belt in their bedroom closet, change into clean blouses that won’t smell of smoke, and return to the living room. While Izzy acts as lookout for Aunt Julia, Arie sinks into the sofa, hugs one of Aunt Julia’s ruffled throw pillows to her chest, and takes deep breaths until her heart begins to slow. The pillow smells like the cologne Uncle Bill wears to church, and it makes her feel even worse for having done something she knows will scare him and Aunt Julia. They’ll worry Izzy and Arie are going to end up like Elizabeth because they won’t stay inside and do as they’re told.

“Do you see her?” Arie says for the third time in twenty minutes.

Izzy lifts a finger, signaling Arie should wait. Alder Avenue has been quiet since a group of ladies marched down the street almost half an hour ago, their arms full of groceries. Aunt Julia was not among them.

“No,” Izzy says, “But there’s men at Mrs. Herze’s house now. Looks like police.”

Arie jumps from the sofa and joins Izzy at the window. Across the street, two men in dark suits stand on Mrs. Herze’s porch and a police car is parked in her driveway.

“Is that about the fire?” Arie says. “Are they here because of us?”

“Uh-oh,” Izzy says, letting the drape fall closed and pushing Arie back to her seat.

Uncle Bill never uses the driveway. He always circles the block, drives up the alley, and parks in the garage. But that’s his car pulling into the driveway and that’s Aunt Julia sitting next to him. An engine rattles and falls silent. Two doors slam. Footsteps, one light set, one heavy set, cross the front porch. Izzy and Arie sit side by side on the sofa, hands in their laps, feet dangling near the floor. Keys rattle in the front lock. The door swings open.

Aunt Julia is the first inside. Her hair has frizzed since she left the house this morning. Later in the day, when she tires of trying to tame it with pins and hairspray and it becomes a tangle of wild red hair, she’ll tie a scarf over it. She holds one bag of groceries that she tosses on the entry table before rushing into the living room. Behind her, Uncle Bill carries a few more bags, but he doesn’t toss his aside.

“You were shot at?” Aunt Julia says, first grabbing Arie and then Izzy. Like Mrs. Richardson did, she pushes the hair off their faces to check for cuts or bruises, trails her fingers along their arms, rolls their hands from front to back. “You’re not hurt?”

“He didn’t really shoot at . . .”

“Stop,” Aunt Julia says. “Not another word. You were forbidden . . . forbidden to leave this house.” She stands and paces the length of the sofa. Whenever Aunt Julia gets angry, her voice slips back to where it’s most comfortable. Her Southern twang, Uncle Bill likes to call it. “I told you, didn’t I? Didn’t I make it clear? Didn’t I make it crystal clear? My God, that bowed-up fool shot at you?”

Arie waits for Izzy to answer, but even she must have decided it best to keep quiet.

“Well,” Aunt Julia says. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

“We were only looking for Patches,” Izzy says. “We’ll never find her if we can’t go outside.”

“Don’t you dare get smart with me.”

Uncle Bill walks to the entry, sets his groceries next to the bag Aunt Julia dropped, and returns. He rests his hands on Aunt Julia’s shoulders. His dark eyes always have a way of looking sad. Grandma says those dark, sad eyes are what snagged Aunt Julia. Grandma says women, all ages and all types, have a softness for sad eyes.

“Why don’t you two go out front for a few minutes,” Uncle Bill says, leaning around Aunt Julia. He is the only one who makes Aunt Julia look small. “Let me and your aunt talk in private.”

Arie waits for Izzy to stand first, then follows her to the front door.

“Do not even think about leaving that yard,” Aunt Julia says, swatting away Uncle Bill’s hands and flopping down on the center of the sofa. “Am I understood?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Izzy says.

“Yes, ma’am,” Arie says.

Izzy gives an extra tug on the front door to make sure it’s closed and lets the screen door slam, something she knows will upset Aunt Julia. The men and the police car are no longer at Mrs. Herze’s house. Arie exhales, thinking that is a good sign, then drops down on the first stair and slides over to make room for Izzy. But instead of joining Arie, Izzy grabs the rope she found in Mrs. Richardson’s garage and marches across the porch. Mrs. Richardson had been too worried about the fire and gunshots at her house to notice the rope Izzy had carried from the garage or the thin belt that had been wrapped like a bandage around Arie’s hand. Once down the stairs, Izzy walks to the very end of the sidewalk. She stands there, hands on hips, and even though she doesn’t say it, she’s thinking about stepping from their yard onto Alder and disobeying Aunt Julia all over again. Aunt Julia would say Izzy is chugged-full of angry, though Arie isn’t exactly sure about what.

Taking one end of the rope in each hand, Izzy lets it hang to the ground and, with a single swing, begins to skip. She twirls the rope faster and faster, slapping it against the hot concrete, probably thinking the noise will make Aunt Julia mad too, except it really isn’t all that loud.

Across the street at Mr. and Mrs. Herze’s house, a big blue car pulls into their drive. One of the car’s doors swings open and a black shoe appears. The rest of Mr. Herze follows. Without closing his door, he walks down the driveway using long strides, crosses the street, and marches directly up to Arie and Izzy. They’ve never been so close to Mr. Herze. He smells like Uncle Bill’s Sunday cologne, except much stronger, and his stomach pushes against his white shirt, making it look like his buttons might pop right off if he were to take a deep breath. He examines the girls just as Mrs. Richardson and Aunt Julia did, except when his hands run over their arms, they’re rough and dry and cold even though it’s hot outside.

“Your uncle is home, girls?” he says, brushing aside Izzy’s hair and then Arie’s. “You’re unharmed?”

“Yes, sir,” Izzy says.

Arie says nothing but slides one foot away and drags the other to meet it.

“Warren,” Mrs. Herze calls out from her side of the street. “What’s brought you home so early?” She waves one hand overhead and teeters on the edge of the curb. Her dark hair makes her white skin look plastic. Everything about Mrs. Herze shines like it’s store-bought.

Mr. Herze doesn’t answer. His eyes dart back and forth between Izzy and Arie. “Don’t let that Orin Schofield frighten you,” he says, his eyes landing on Izzy and sticking there. “He actually take a shot at you?”

“Not at us, sir,” Izzy says. “At the garage. In the dirt. Don’t think he meant to hurt anyone.”

“Shall I fix you something, Warren?” Mrs. Herze shouts, louder this time. She takes one step into the street. “A sandwich?” She continues to wave a hand overhead. “Are you at all hungry?”

“You tell your uncle to stay home with you girls for the rest of the day,” Mr. Herze says, his eyes still stuck on Izzy. “Tell him Mr. Herze said so.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And if you two find yourselves in any more trouble, you let me know.”

Again, “Yes, sir.”

“Warren, will you want dinner? A change of clothes?”

“All right, then.” Mr. Herze takes each of them by the hand, gives a squeeze, drops Arie’s, still holds Izzy’s. “You two take care.”

Arie pulls Izzy by the arm. Mr. Herze’s hand drops away.

“Anything at all,” he says, reaching out to grab Izzy’s fingers but unable to reach them. “You call on me.”

“Thank you, Mr. Herze,” Izzy says, stumbling as Arie drags her toward the front door.

“We’ll tell Uncle Bill you were here,” Arie says, not sure why she says it or why she is suddenly happy Uncle Bill is much stronger and much bigger than Mr. Herze.

•   •   •

Grace leans against her kitchen counter, six slices of white bread laid out before her like playing cards, and wonders again if she made a mistake letting the twins go home to an empty house. This is usually the busiest part of Grace’s day. She likes to get her chores done before the lunch hour and save her afternoons to tidy the house and touch up her makeup before James comes home. Puttering, Mother always called it. Grace likes to leave her puttering to the afternoons. At this earlier hour, there would normally be laundry to hang out, groceries to put away, a supper to begin planning. But today, she forgot to start any laundry and didn’t bother with the market. Nearby, the stand mixer runs on low. Grace pours a stream of oil into the bowl and as the mixer churns, she begins to count to thirty. Her thoughts drift. She loses track and begins again. Give it thirty seconds, Mother always says.

Grace didn’t call James after Orin Schofield fired his rifle into their garage, but she knew someone would find him and send him home. It’s just as well. He promised to take Grace’s tuna salad back to the church so the men could have a quick sandwich for lunch. It’s one of those dishes Grace can always count on to turn out well. Warm air rushes into the kitchen when the back door swings open. James follows, nearly falling as he rushes across the threshold. Four long strides carry him to Grace, his footsteps clicking on the gray tile floor. He’s picked up a speck of gravel or a stone in the sole of his shoe.

James says nothing at first, but as Grace did with the girls, he cups her cheeks, looks her over from head to toe, smooths damp strands of hair from her face.

“You’re all right?”

She touches his square jaw. It’s rough because he didn’t bother to shave this morning.

“I’m fine,” she says, and rests one hand on the baby. “We’re fine.” She watches as oil blends with the eggs and lemon juice.

Knowing James would come home to check on her, Grace had run a brush through her hair and freshened her lipstick and powder. She knew the glow of her hair when it’s newly brushed and the shine on her cheeks that comes with a dab of rouge would reassure him.

“It was a silly misunderstanding,” she says, drawing one finger through the mayonnaise and touching it to James’s lips.

He’s angry; of course he’s angry. He storms about the kitchen, nearly knocking over a chair, stopping several times to stare out the window over the sink, hoping, just hoping, to catch sight of Orin Schofield. He’s outraged. Gunfire at his own home. The police should come and have a word with Orin, but Grace says no. Orin shot into the dirt. He was really quite deliberate. He meant no harm. And a good scare might be just what those girls need. The real danger is how they disobey Julia and Bill.

“And the fire?” James says, wrapping his arms around Grace’s full belly. “What happened with the fire?” He has exhausted himself, stomping and ranting. He leans into Grace, lets his face sink into her hair, and breathes in. With each movement, the stone wedged in his shoe still taps.

Grace shuts off her mixer and pulls a warm hardboiled egg from the pot on the stove. She taps it lightly on the edge of the sink, giving herself time to think.

“The girls,” she says, scratching at the cracked shell with one fingernail and peeling it back. The white of the egg tears away with the thin shell. She should have cooled them first. “I think the girls were playing with fireworks.” The lie comes quickly, easily. “It really only simmered. Burned itself out. I promised them I wouldn’t tell Julia.” With a paring knife, she slices through the firm, slippery egg white and pops the sliver in James’s mouth. “You’re sweet to worry so. Mr. Williamson took the gun. It won’t happen again.”

James slides around Grace so he can stand at the window. He doesn’t notice the clicking sound his shoe continues to make or he would dig out the gravel with a nail or one of Grace’s steak knives. He is watching out that window for Orin or maybe for the colored men who walk down the alley. He’ll be wondering if those men are really the ones who started the fire. If Grace thinks it, James will think it too.

“What is that?” Grace says, pointing at James’s back pocket.

“Found it in the garage.” He pulls out a white shoe.

It’s a woman’s shoe. Two-inch heel. Everyday wear. It’s crushed and marred with black smudges. It’s Grace’s.

“Sorry,” he says. “Must have run it over.”

Grace takes the shoe by its cracked heel. After the men had gone, leaving her alone in the garage, she limped back to the house. She had walked on the toe of her bare foot, her nylon surely snagging, because on the other, she wore a heel. Always so forgetful. She should have remembered the shoe and thrown it away with the glass she and Mother picked up from the garage floor.

“It must have been in with the things Mr. Symanski brought,” she says. Another lie, quickly, easily. “Ewa’s, I suppose.”

“Probably right.”

James holds a can of tuna beneath the opener hung from the underside of a cabinet. “I don’t want you going out back anymore. Definitely don’t want you near Orin Schofield.” Then he locks the can in place and cranks the silver handle. “No reason for you even to go into the garage.”

Grace drops three diced eggs into her largest bowl but is unsure how much relish to add. She’s never made such a large batch. James dumps the tuna into the same bowl, sets the empty can on the counter, and leads Grace to the table, where he helps her to sit.

“I talked to a fellow today,” he says, pacing between the sink and table. His shoe clicks, though not as loudly, as if the stone has worked its way up into the tread. “He was down at the church, speaking with a lot of folks. I talked to him about selling the house. He says plenty of folks are ready to sell since Elizabeth disappeared. Says he’s had a dozen calls. Felt bad talking to him, what with Elizabeth still out there.”

The last time Grace heard tapping on her kitchen floor, she had been afraid it would wake Betty Lawson’s baby. She had been sleeping in the far corner while the ladies of the St. Alban’s Charitable Ventures Committee chatted in Grace’s living room.