Until She Comes Home (11 page)

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 have 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.”

O
nce 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.

“We should all go to Mrs. Nowack,” Doris Taylor had said. Doris brought cinnamon rolls to the bake sale every year even though they always sold poorly. She used too few pecans and consistently overcooked them. “All of us together. As one. We’ll tell her we’ll not shop in her store if she refuses to close her doors. One of our ladies might be tempted to go to Willingham on payday if the bakery remains open. It’s for our own safety. Malina said so herself just the other day.”

Again, the ladies looked to Malina. “Of course,” she said, letting out a long sigh, and smiling. “It’s a fine idea. You should listen to Doris.”

Malina had worries of her own, more than enough, and no desire to take on the worries of others. Laying her head back so as to avoid any more gaping mouths, Malina had stared at Grace Richardson sitting across the aisle. Looking straight ahead, her eyes seemingly focused on nothing, Grace had rubbed her two bare hands in slow, steady circles over her round stomach. Every so often, her eyelids slowly closed and took so long in opening again, Malina wondered each time if Grace were asleep. She didn’t wake from this stupor until Julia Wagner boarded the bus.

“Maybe those women will leave now that one of them is dead,” a lady had said as the bus pulled away from its stop outside the thrift store. “And you know, don’t you, that men have been fired. If there are no men left who will open a pocketbook, those women will all but vanish.”

“We shouldn’t be talking about this,” said another. “Think of Elizabeth. It’s all so unseemly. It’s disrespectful to her, don’t you think?”

And then the conversation turned to Jerry Lawson. By now, everyone knew, even those who lived blocks from Alder, that Jerry had been fired. What a shame for poor Betty Lawson. What was she to do now that she knew such things about her husband? What was that poor child to do? What was her name? Cynthia, wasn’t it? Poor Cynthia, all but abandoned. Jerry would be able to make no sort of living. The ladies next wondered aloud if it was only one woman for Jerry Lawson or if he took several. One would be worse than many, they all agreed, because if it were only one, that might mean he actually cared for her. My God, it might mean he actually cared.

“My Harry said the woman was killed with a hammer.” The lady’s name escaped Malina. She lived somewhere just north of Alder and rarely attended services. “Can you imagine? The police could tell, just by looking at the woman, that it was a hammer, or something much like it. How do you suppose they know such things? How does one look at a hole in the head and know what caused it?”

“What do you know of the dead woman?” Malina said, still watching Grace rub her hands lightly over her stomach as she chatted with Julia Wagner. The two were not listening to the ladies talk but were giggling among themselves.

“Why on earth would you ask?” several of the ladies said, one echoing another.

Malina gripped the seat in front of her, bracing herself as the bus neared its stop at Willingham. What must it look like when a person is hit in the head with a hammer? “Have you read anything? Have your husbands told you what she looked like?”

Doris Taylor pulled a tissue from her handbag, folded it, and blotted her fresh lipstick. “She was one of them. What more could possibly matter?”

There must have been a time when Mr. Herze’s girl looked like Grace Richardson. The girl probably rubbed her hands over her stomach and stared at nothing, her thoughts filled with dreams of a healthy, happy baby and a man to love her. If Mr. Herze’s girl were the dead one, what had become of the baby in the carriage? Malina had leafed through every newspaper that landed on her doorstep since the day that woman, some woman, was killed. She studied the papers until the ink stained her fingertips and the paper had torn at the fold, not certain why it mattered to her or why she craved any hint as to which woman had died. But every day the craving grew. Even if she knew, it wouldn’t help her predicament. No matter who died or who killed her, Malina had still told a lie.

“It’s no never mind,” Malina had said as the bus slowed to its stop at Woodward and Willingham. “I’ll see you ladies at the bakery in twenty minutes. What a fine idea you’ve had, Doris.”

As Malina nears the alley where the woman was killed, she walks mostly on her toes so her red leather heels don’t slap the concrete and give her away. At the alley’s entrance, she stops and tugs on her three-quarter-length sleeves. The saleslady at Hudson’s said not everyone could wear the new length but Malina, being as tiny as she is, would carry it beautifully.

For so much to have transpired since the woman was killed, the alley looks no different, except perhaps it appears smaller in the daylight, less foreboding. Seeing it again for the first time since that night, the alley isn’t so long and dark, and what had seemed like quite a distance when she was following that woman and her carriage is really no more than a few steps. For an instant, Malina is tempted to travel those few steps and look for the hammer she dropped. It would be a relief to have the proper tool hanging on Mr. Herze’s pegboard again, but that is foolish thinking. The police will have found that hammer, or possibly someone else found it, and whisked it away. Before temptation can again overwhelm her better judgment, Malina continues toward the river.

The colored women stand in a small group. A few of them sit on the curb, their long black legs stretched before them. Others sit cross-legged on the same curb, picking at blades of grass or their own unkempt nails. Still others stand in the middle of the street. There was a time, not so long ago, those women wouldn’t dare show themselves on Willingham Avenue. But the highways have pushed them west and north, and now every day they inch closer. Often they are seen lounging, waiting, biding their time until the ladies finish their shopping and leave for the day. They’ll all but take over on paydays, some of the ladies say, and that is likely the beginning of the end. Soon the ladies will be chased from Willingham just as they were chased from Beersdorf’s Grocery. Already some of the ladies have begun traveling to Hamtramck to do their shopping.

Standing on the outskirts of the group, almost as if she is not one of them, is the girl. Malina worried that she might not recognize her, but even from this distance, almost a full block away, there is no doubt. The girl has a kind of grace about her, probably due to her slender limbs and long neck. Wondering if the girl has smooth skin, Malina takes a few more steps toward the group. Slowly, as if the girl senses someone staring at her, her head rolls to the side and she looks back at Malina. Other heads turn. A few of the women push themselves off the ground. Others cross arms over their chests.

A tall, round woman with heavy legs sticking out from a black skirt stands in the center of the group. She has narrow shoulders, flabby arms, and surprisingly large hips. Like the others, she turns to face Malina, but even as she turns, the large woman doesn’t move the hand that clutches the handle of a baby carriage. This woman is much taller than the one who frightened Malina in the alley that night, though she does bear the same unfortunate shape. The woman takes a step toward Malina, and yet she doesn’t let go of the carriage. She is protecting it, protecting the baby inside, from Malina.

There couldn’t possibly be more than one such carriage. The one parked in the middle of the street has the same large metal wheels, the same black canopy, and if Malina could get close enough, it would have the same squeal as the one the girl pushed. This large woman, however, is built like someone who has birthed a baby—full roomy hips, soft sagging arms. It hadn’t seemed possible Mr. Herze’s girl could be the mother. Her hips were narrow; her legs, frail and lean. That night on Willingham, the girl must have been watching over the baby, doing a favor for the real mother. It makes sense she would be kind. Mr. Herze likes proper manners and polite conversation. He appreciates kindness. His girl is graceful and considerate. It shouldn’t be a surprise. While Mr. Herze’s girl is clearly not the dead one, there is no need to peek inside that carriage.

Back on Willingham, the ladies will be finishing their shopping. They’ll gather now inside Nowack’s Bakery, where they’ll buy up all the apple cakes. It’s the thing Mrs. Nowack bakes every Monday and probably what drew many of the ladies to Willingham today when they might otherwise have preferred to stay away. Malina will want to get to the bakery to buy one of the cakes for Mr. Herze before they’re gone. He does like a slice, lightly dusted with confectioner’s sugar, before bed. Once Doris Taylor and the others have had their say with Mrs. Nowack, no one will be buying anything.

Malina should feel some relief that the child is not Mr. Herze’s doing, but there’s still the matter of Jerry Lawson pointing at her and accusing her. He might storm across the street again, give Mr. Herze reason to doubt Malina. She really does wish she hadn’t lied. After a few backward steps, those Negro women staring at her all the while, Malina swings around, no longer concerned if her heels slap loudly against the concrete, and walks back to Willingham and Nowack’s Bakery as quickly as her slender skirt and three-quarter-sleeve jacket will allow.

•   •   •

Two weeks before Grace was to marry James, Mother said it was high time Grace learn to make pierogi. Mother stood at Grace’s stove and shook her head. “Butter will scorch,” she had said, and slid the pan of simmering onions to a cool burner. They tried again two days later. What else could Grace offer if not a warm supper every night? On the second day, Grace strained the cooked potatoes, pouring the water down the drain. Again, Mother shook her head. Her recipe said to retain the water from the cooked potatoes. Grace boiled a half-dozen more and Mother sighed at the waste. Mother gave up after the third try, when Grace added too much filling to the pierogi. Grace crimped the edges with a knuckle as she had seen Mother do, but she had rolled the dough too thin, and each crescent-shaped dumpling split when she dropped it into the boiling pot. Cheesy potato filling clouded the water.

“What else have you to offer?”

Setting a bowl of pierogi dough on the kitchen table where she can lean over it and use her weight, Grace presses, folds and turns the dough, presses, folds and turns. Mother’s dough is always smooth and elastic. Grace’s sticks to her fingers in heavy white clumps. Stepping off the early-morning bus that returned her to Alder well ahead of the other ladies, Grace had thought the cooler, drier air of early day would help her dough. If this batch of pierogi turns out well, she’ll send them to the church with James and then make and freeze more for the bake sale. She adds another spoonful of flour, and with the heel of her hand, begins again. Hearing a shout from the back alley, she straightens, nearly knocking the bowl to the floor.

“You better come on out of there.” And then, “Got myself a rifle . . .”

With the back of one sticky hand, Grace first pushes aside the curtains in the back door, and even knowing he won’t be there, she looks for James. There is more shouting, though this time, it isn’t a man’s voice. Grace wipes her hands on her apron as she sidesteps to the kitchen window, picking blobs of dough from between her fingers as she goes. Smoke rolls out of the garage in a thin plume. Now she considers the telephone, but there is no number to call for James. He’ll be out on Woodward or down near the river, hoping not to find a body that has floated to the surface. She throws open the back door.

“It’s us, Mr. Schofield.” Again, a girl’s voice. “It’s only us.”

In the alley near Grace’s garage, Orin Schofield stands, a rifle of some sort braced against his shoulder. The rising smoke has changed from white to black.