Until She Comes Home (24 page)

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 have 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.”

A
t 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 her 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.

“Mrs. Herze?” the officer asks.

It’s the officer with the dark curls. He asks Malina’s name as if he doesn’t remember her. She was hoping for the sweet blond detective with the red lips.

“Certainly,” Malina says.

“We’ve a few questions for you,” the one with the straight brown hair says. “You are familiar with the girls who live across the street?”

“They don’t live there,” Malina says. “They are only visiting.”

“And you are aware they’re missing?”

“My husband is among the men searching.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the officer with dark curls says. “We understand they came to see you yesterday.”

“You make it sound as if they were visiting for pleasure.”

The straight-haired officer flips open a small notebook and taps on it with a pencil. He is hurrying Malina along.

“They are a menace, those two,” she says. “They were sent to deliver an apology.” Malina unties the apron at her waist and folds it over one arm. “Would you like to see what they did to my flowerbeds?”

“Do you recall the time of their visit, ma’am?”

“I certainly do. Five forty-five. Precisely. Mr. Herze had arrived home, and he is always quite precise.”

“And they had stolen something from you, ma’am?”

Malina smooths the apron that lies over her arm. She line dries them every Saturday morning, sprinkles warm water on them, and presses each with a hot iron. Behind her, the side door creaks, drawn open by the breeze that whips past the two officers and through the house. If they would ask, Malina would tell them. She knows she would. If only they would ask her. . . . Do you think your husband is a bad man? Has he done bad things? Why would those girls steal a hammer? Such an odd thing for two girls to do. She would tell the truth, wouldn’t she, if only they would ask.

“Those two stole the fruits of my labor,” she says. “Ruined my lovely flowers.”

“A hammer?” one officer says, glancing at the small notebook he holds in his hand. “Yes, a hammer. They were here to return the tool?”

“Why on earth would I know about such a thing?”

“They didn’t return a hammer to Mr. Herze?”

“In order to return something, one must have first borrowed it.”

“But the girls were here?”

“To deliver an apology, yes.”

“And have you seen them since? Today, have you seen them today?” the curly-haired officer asks. “Or your husband? Is he available? Perhaps he has seen them.”

“He is most certainly not available. I already told you he is searching with the others. And no, I haven’t seen them. They’re wild, you know. It’s no wonder. Can the police really do nothing to help this neighborhood? First Elizabeth Symanski and now this.”

The officer with the cropped brown hair flips his small notebook closed but does not answer.

“Do you mean to imply they have been gone since last evening?” Malina says. “Do you mean to imply they’ve been gone all this time?”

The officer with the curls nods and pulls a sheet of folded paper from his back pocket. “Is this familiar to you?”

Malina leans over the crumpled flyer.
LOST CAT,
it reads.

“They were taped up in a nearby neighborhood. Mrs. Wagner thought your husband may have given them to the girls. She said he’d made other similar flyers.”

Malina touches the glossy paper. “I’m sure I wouldn’t know. What difference does that make to the matter at hand?”

“Only trying to determine their comings and goings.” The officer pulls on his hat, tips his head, says thank you, and asks Malina to contact them should she remember anything else.

Once the officers are gone, Malina walks back into the dining room to continue her work. When she has grated the first carrot down to a nub, she picks another from her pile and gives it the same inspection. Outside on Alder, men begin climbing into cars two at a time. Like Malina, they have received word the girls have been gone for hours, have been gone since coming to see Mr. Herze. The men are spreading out. A few of them will likely drive to the river where they found Elizabeth Symanski.

Rolling the carrot from side to side, Malina decides it, too, is good enough for one of her cakes. She begins to scrub it over the grater but stops when blood trickles down the knuckles of her first and second finger. She wipes them on her apron, making a mental note to scrub the stain with a toothbrush and dollop of baking soda, and starts on the next carrot.