Until She Comes Home (7 page)

Tilting her head first to the right and then to the left, Malina reaches out with one finger and adjusts the hammer upward a quarter inch until it slips inside the black outline. Even with this adjustment, the head of the new hammer is much smaller than the head of the hammer she lost, and the outline no longer fits.

If it weren’t for Mr. Herze’s sudden questions about her nightly driving habits, Malina wouldn’t have concerned herself so with the hammer she lost in that alley. But eventually, Mr. Herze will make his way into the garage and will notice his missing hammer with only a glance. First, he will ask Malina if she has seen the tool. Next, he’ll stomp from neighbor to neighbor, accusing them along the way. He does so hate it when people borrow his things. Eventually, he’ll think it odd his hammer disappeared so mysteriously, and he’ll give thought to something he might otherwise dismiss.

If someone has told Mr. Herze that Malina was driving that night, perhaps the same person will tell him she carried with her a red-handled hammer. It would do no good for Mr. Herze to learn Malina was at the factory. He has never tolerated a wife who asked questions or poked about in his business. Malina learned this in the early years. And for all the years that followed, she’s remembered. If only she had gone back for the hammer or, better yet, if only she hadn’t worried so about an empty driveway and a ruined supper. If only she had gone back, there would be no proof. If only she had gone back, she would have no need for red-handled or brown-handled hammers or any type of hammer. If only she had gone back, Mr. Herze would never know for certain she had been on Willingham. He’d never know for certain she lied.

•   •   •

At the garage, Grace had set aside the garbage can and reached down to grab the heavy wooden door’s handle. Taking out the garbage had definitely been a sign the evening was drawing to a close. James would come home soon enough and they would go to sleep for the second night knowing Elizabeth was not yet home. With both hands wrapped firmly around the small metal handle, Grace gave a good yank, slipped her hands under the door’s bottom edge, and shoved it overhead. It was harder for her now that the baby had grown so large.

Inside, the garage was dark. James’s car was parked in its usual spot. Howard Wallace drove him to the church, or was it Al Thompson? James had his maps to study and his notes to make. The others wanted him thinking and planning, not driving. Two silver garbage cans stood next to the car in their usual spot. She dropped a tissue over the handle of the first trash can so as to not soil her fingers. That can was full, so she dropped the silver lid, and as she lifted the second, a tissue still protecting her from the grimy handle, a hand slapped over her face.

The hand was bare, hard, and cold. The large palm and thick fingers covered her nose and mouth, cutting off her air. She threw her head from side to side, forward and back. A body, wide and tall, forced her, stumbling, tripping, deeper inside the garage. Her lungs burned. She reached for the hand, scratching at it, tearing at it, and then someone standing in front of her grabbed her wrists.

“Shhhh, now,” a deep voice whispered. His breath warmed her cheeks and eyes. The words rattled as if they burned the man’s throat.

The one behind slid his hand over her mouth. She sucked air through her nose. Their scent was sour. The man who stood in front had a small beard on the tip of his chin. He was tall, taller even than James. The man drew three fingers over the beard, drawing them to a point. He set a green bottle on the trunk of James’s car. Green glass like Julia finds behind her house, like James and Grace find behind their house. He looked at Grace’s belly. Smiled, laughed maybe. Holding her by the wrists, he swung them from side to side like they were children singing on a playground.

“Good girls are quiet,” he said.

The one behind took her arms, crushed her wrists in one hand, and covered her mouth again with the other. He pulled her arms back, grinding his body against hers. Her shoulders burned.

The smiling one in front touched his chin, pet the small tuft growing there. A third said, “Jesus Christ,” and turned his face away because Grace’s stomach rose up at them as she arched her back. The one behind scrubbed his cheek against hers, like gritty sandpaper. One hand touched her stomach and then another. One slipped under the hem of the blouse that floated over her baby. She tasted his stale breath. The hand pulled on the elastic panel that stretched more every week. The hand was cool and wet on her skin. It lay there, not moving.

“Jesus damn.” This man couldn’t watch. He had tired eyes. He blinked slowly, shook his head, and disappeared.

The one behind yanked her head until she was staring into the dark rafters. Overhead, shadows folded in on themselves. That same hand slid off her mouth, pulled down over her throat, and pinched tightly so that for another moment she couldn’t inhale. It was a warning of what he could do, and then he reached through the neckline of her blouse. Mother hand-stitched the lace there. When the hand couldn’t fit, it pulled at the seam, tearing it open, tearing the lace. Jagged nails snagged her blouse. Rough, callused fingers touched her skin. Her breasts were heavier than before, heavier every day, and Mother said that meant the baby would come early. She said Grace would need to bind herself after the birth because her breasts would fill with milk and they wouldn’t have need for it.

Falling backward, Grace’s arms flew up and she landed on her tailbone. Two hands pushed her to the ground, pinned her wrists. The darkness settled in around her. From somewhere above her, she heard their voices. Two of them. One talked of the newspaper and wondered if they would write about Grace. Would anyone care to print an article that told of what happened to her? Would the police ever come? Would they act as if it never took place? They knew that colored woman on Willingham. At the very least, knew of her, the dead woman no one talked about since Elizabeth disappeared. The dead woman who was never written about in the newspaper. The dead woman whom the police dismissed with a few questions over coffee and cigarettes. These men, this man, knew about her, and this was what he’d do to set things right.

One of them pressed Grace’s face away, forcing her cheek into the ground. She stared into the side of one of James’s tires. The green bottle fell off the car, shattered on the garage floor. One entered her. This was what became of Elizabeth. The breathing came from behind her, above her, all around her. This was what Elizabeth last heard. He was on top of Grace, his hands planted on either side, thick cords and dark wiry hair running up his forearms. This was what Elizabeth last saw. Grace stared at the black tread. James had once shown her how to stick a penny in a tire and check that the tread was safe. She had laughed because she never did learn to drive. When they sell this house and move away because no one wants to be the last to get out, James says he’ll try again to teach her.

“Jesus damn,” one said from somewhere far away.

This was what happened to Elizabeth. They must have started with her and this was how they’d set things right.

And then it is quiet.

I
nside the empty garage, Grace’s skin cools. The men are gone. Somewhere down the street, glass breaks. Then silence. She inhales, exhales—only the sound of her own breath. Next to James’s car, green glass sparkles where the moonlight hits it. His car doesn’t have the sharp angles or sparkling chrome of some of the newer models. Its back end is rounded; its nose, short and blunt. Rolling onto her side, she pulls up her knees as high as her belly will allow and gathers the front of her blouse. Mother’s lace hangs in shredded pieces. Grace places her other hand on her baby. The doctor said she would drop in another month or so and begin to position herself for birth.

Piecing her blouse together, Grace pushes herself off the ground. The kitchen trash can lies on its side. The dry muffins are scattered across the dirt floor. A few have rolled under James’s car. A few more have been trampled, mashed into the ground. Clutching Mother’s ruined lace in one hand, Grace uses the other to pick up the muffins, even the few that are no more than crumbs, and empties the trash in the second silver garbage can.

Outside the garage, the alley is empty and dark as if the men were never there. Beyond the house, the lights from the street make her blink. She closes her eyes, breathes in through her nose and out through her mouth. Sulfur hangs in the air. She heard them earlier in the evening, fireworks crackling a few blocks over. They start earlier every year, kids and their firecrackers. Every July 4, she and James board the
Ste. Claire
at the foot of Woodward and travel down the Detroit River. It’s where they first met. This summer, because of the baby, James says they might need to skip a year.

She was ten that Fourth of July; James, eighteen. He says he remembers her, even as a child. That’s romance, and not reason, talking. Grace had stood among the adults and other fidgeting children, the wooden gangplank underfoot, and for a time, thought only of the cold river water below. Those are her first memories of the
Ste. Claire
—the tingle in her stomach when her feet hit the hollow wooden planks, the fear of plunging into the cold water below, and the sharp, sweet smell of sulfur. The ship’s horn soon followed, a deep blast. Mother said, because she said the same every year, that it was a sorrowful sound and this was no time for sorrow.

Because she was ten, Grace was too old to run ahead of her parents. In years past, she would leave Mother’s side and weave in and out of the other passengers to reach the front of the line. Being one of the first on the ship meant the brass railing leading to the upper deck would be untouched, unblemished, and the mahogany woodwork would shine. But it was high time Grace behave like a lady, and being a lady meant she wouldn’t be one of the first aboard. All the hands of the passengers who came before her would ruin that perfect shine. The year she was ten, she stood in line, hopping from one foot to the other, one gloved hand tucked inside Mother’s, already sorry for what she would see when she stepped aboard.

The ladies, all ages, who waited alongside Grace stood a little taller that year, as if preparing for something. Mother said the whole country was bracing itself and had good reason to shore up its footing. Grace didn’t know what that meant or why the country needed a sound foothold, but the spirit of those ladies with their full sleeves and cinched waists and hair that hung loosely over one eye and down their backs lifted her up. She walked with her shoulders back and her head high and wished her dress weren’t one sewn for a child.

The men who boarded the
Ste. Claire
, that year and every other year, wore suits because when the sun set, a band would play on the upper deck. As the engines churned and the music throbbed, the gentlemen would wrap their arms around the ladies’ tiny bound waists and spin them across a dance floor polished with cornmeal. This was where Grace first saw James, his right hand cradling the small of a young woman’s back and his left hand wrapped around hers. Their feet floated across the glossy floor, and with each spin, he pulled her closer. He was tall, taller than every girl wearing her best heels, and his shoulders were broad and full and one dark curl fell across his forehead, tossed out of place by the spinning and twirling.

As he danced, James had laughed easily with the girl he held in his arms, perhaps too easily. He laughed as if she were a sister, and each time he did, the girl’s frown deepened. Grace noticed him because of the easy laugh. She always covered her mouth when she laughed. But he laid his head back and opened his mouth wide, not afraid of who might hear or who might see. She felt certain he would be a kind man, and this kindness is what she would most remember in the years to come. In the end, the girl with a hemline that floated scarcely beneath her knees and yellow hair that glowed under the overhead lights crossed her arms over her chest and flipped that yellow hair when she stomped away to find another partner. Grace had been happy to watch her go.

From somewhere north of Alder, more fireworks crackle. One shoe is gone, so she walks toward the house with an awkward gait. Step, pause. Step, pause. At the back door, she makes her way carefully up the stairs because she holds the trash can in one hand and her tattered blouse in the other. She has no free hand to hold the railing. Careful, now, the doctor had said. You don’t want to take a nasty fall.

In the kitchen, the fan still sweeps from side to side, wobbling on its stand. The oven timer beeps in a steady rhythm. Clutching her blouse in two fists, Grace sits at the table, both feet flat on the floor. She stares straight ahead at the clock over the stove. She waits to feel the familiar rumbling that means her baby girl is stretching and rolling. The fan sprays gusts of air that blow loose bits of hair across her face.

“Good Lord in heaven,” Mother says, wiping her hands on a towel as she walks into the kitchen.

Mother has already wrapped a scarf around her hair and removed her makeup for bed. She still wears her gray duster but has changed into her felt slippers. With all that’s going on, she’ll spend the night. James insisted.

“See to those muffins before they burn,” Mother says.

And then she sees Grace.

Walking around the table, her duster’s full skirt fluttering about her, Mother keeps her distance. She picks up the trash can Grace set inside the door and puts it under the sink. She silences the timer and pulls the muffins from the oven.

“Mother?”

“Come with me, child,” Mother says, holding Grace’s forearm with one hand and cupping her elbow with the other.

They walk up the stairs and into the bathroom. Grace undresses because Mother tells her to and waits while Mother runs the hot water. Soon, the tub is full and Mother leads Grace to it, holds her by the arm as she lifts one foot and then the other over the edge. Grace lowers herself, pressing one hand to the tiled wall and keeping a strong hold of Mother’s arm with the other. The warm water chokes her. She coughs into a closed fist, feels as if she might vomit. Mother rests a hand on Grace’s shoulder until the nausea passes and then hands her a bar of soap.

“Go on and clean yourself,” Mother says.

Grace’s arms float at her sides, her belly rising up between them. Mother wraps Grace’s fingers around the soap and begins to pull the gold pins from her hair. One at a time, Mother drops them on the side of the tub. A few slip over the rounded edge and fall silently to the floor where they catch in the beige bathmat. When every pin is out, Mother brushes Grace’s hair until it is smooth and pins it up again using the same pins.

“I feel the baby,” Mother says, resting one hand on Grace’s stomach, where it rises out of the warm water. The one spot that is cool. “She’s moving fine. Kicking. Do you see? Kicking hard and strong.”

Grace slides both hands over her belly. It’s hard like a shell, and after a moment of stillness, the baby shifts. Relief is the thing that makes her cry. When she first married James, the other husbands winked and slapped him on the back. Need only brush up against one this young. You’ll have yourself a son in no time. But it didn’t happen. For so many years, it didn’t happen. Grace prayed every night for a baby, lit candles at St. Alban’s, slept with a scrap of red ribbon under her pillow. She wanted a baby beyond all else, not only for herself but also for James. It will happen, James said when she cried. It will happen.

Mother helps Grace into her white cotton nightgown and into her bedroom and into her bed. She pulls up the sheet to Grace’s chin and folds back the top blanket. This is what Mother did when Grace was a child. In the window, the white sheers flutter. A breeze brushes across Grace’s face.

“I’ll tell him you’re feeling poorly, that you have a fever. I’ll tell him to sleep on the sofa.”

Grace rolls on her side and lays a hand on the baby. Another nudge from inside. “Elizabeth?” she asks.

Mother tilts her head. “Nothing. I’ve heard nothing.”

Grace wants to ask Mother if anyone searched the Symanskis’ garage even though she knows they did. She knows James looked there and others, too.

“The twins,” she says, pushing herself into a sitting position with one hand while keeping the other on the baby. “Julia left them at home tonight. She said they were old enough. She thinks they’re safe.”

“I’ll see to them,” Mother says, waving at Grace to lie back and then pulling the curtains closed, cutting off the breeze. “You stay. Rest. Hardly a mark on you. You’ll be well in the morning.”

A flick. The door closes. The room goes dark. The air is still. In the bathroom, the water drains from the tub and Mother shuffles about, probably collecting Grace’s clothes. She’ll throw them away, won’t bother to mend them.

The door opens again and light from the hallway spills into the room. Grace’s eyelids flutter.

“Did you see the color of him?” Mother asks.

Grace nods or perhaps she only blinks.

“No man wants to know this about his wife,” Mother says. “He can’t live with it. Do yourself this favor. No man wants to know.”

Surely this is what became of Elizabeth Symanski. Surely this is what she suffered.

The door closes again, and the room falls dark.

•   •   •

For tonight, the search is over. Outside Julia’s dining-room window, the block is mostly quiet except for the steady buzz of insects, cicadas though it’s early for them to be out. One by one, bedroom lights switch off up and down Alder Avenue, though every porch light still shines. Nearby, a baby cries. That will be Betty Lawson’s little one, her cries carrying through the open window in her nursery. Upstairs, Bill and the twins sleep. Nothing should wake them. No more slamming doors, no more cars rolling down the street. The pie plates have been washed and dried. The unused rhubarb has been wrapped in aluminum foil and stored in the refrigerator. Julia promised the twins a pie of their own tomorrow. She’ll have to get up early to roll out the crust before she goes back to the church. The twins will be able to do the rest.

Through the dining-room window, Julia watches for Betty Lawson. After the last feeding before bedtime, Betty will tuck the baby in her carriage and stroll her down Alder. Betty says it’s the only way to get the little one to sleep. Every night since the baby came to live with Betty and Jerry, Julia has watched Betty make this trip. Only once has Julia joined her. “The baby so favors you,” Julia had said to Betty as they walked that night. She meant her comment to be kind, as if to say, without really saying it, that Betty and Jerry Lawson adopted the perfect child, one who would be mistaken for their own. “She really takes after Jerry’s mother,” Betty had said.

Each night since, Julia has watched Betty and the baby from her window, a wilted article about the Willows tucked in her front pocket. Julia cut the story from the newspaper almost a year ago, and she keeps it in the top drawer of the entry table. The Willows is a home for unwed mothers. Only good girls from nice homes. Every train in the country leads eventually to Kansas City and the Willows. This is most assuredly where Betty and Jerry went to adopt their perfectly matched child. Julia hadn’t wanted to consider it. Why would a couple once successful consider adoption? But maybe it’s a better way. Betty Lawson is definitely happy. Even though she won’t admit she and her husband adopted their new baby, she is still happy. Her hair is flat these days and she regularly forgets to comb out her pin curls since the baby came to live with them, but her eyes are softer. It’s the look of relief.

As Julia has watched Betty and her baby night after night, she has tried to force herself out the door again to ask Betty about the Willows. For three years, Bill has barely touched Julia, hardly seems sorry for it anymore. There may not be another baby if not for another way. I won’t tell a soul, Julia would say to Betty Lawson. But as each night came and went, Julia stood at her window, unable to force herself out the door, and suffered an ache in her chest that wouldn’t dissolve until morning when she woke to find Bill, and now the twins, sitting at the kitchen table, wondering what was for breakfast. Maybe, if Julia and Bill were to adopt they wouldn’t be afraid a baby born to other parents would die. A boy this time. Dark like Bill because a son should favor his father. His skin would have an olive tint, ever so slight, and he would have Julia’s blue eyes. This one would live.

“You’re not going, are you?”

Julia lets the drape fall closed. “What are you doing awake?” she whispers so as to not wake the others.

Late at night or early in the morning, it’s difficult to tell Izzy and Arie apart. Both will have brushed out their hair and scrubbed their faces. In these silent hours, both will be quiet, tender. This is always the way for Arie. Not for Izzy.

The girl standing the top of the stairs clutches the banister with both hands. “You promised Uncle Bill.”

Arie.

“You’re right,” Julia says. “And never let it be said I broke a promise.”

Hiking her slender skirt over her knees, Julia runs up the stairs two at a time, meaning to chase Arie back to bed, but she doesn’t turn and run in her usual way. She doesn’t dip her head and cup a hand over her mouth to muffle the laugh that might wake the others. Instead, she lets go of the banister and wraps her arms around Julia’s waist.