The men stand in small groups that grow as more searchers file down the stairs and, slowly, some of the ladies abandon their serving duties and join the men. A few of the ladies suggest the bake sale be postponed, but Malina Herze says it’s too early to consider such a thing and reminds the ladies to keep those donations to the thrift store coming. Each time a new man walks down the stairs, every head turns as if the searchers and their wives are expecting some news. Arthur Jacobson, who lives well north of Alder now but still comes to Sunday services at St. Alban’s, is one of the last to walk into the basement. With hat in hand, he gestures toward the narrow windows that open out onto the parking lot above.
James Richardson and a few other men stand in the parking lot with two police officers. A streetlight shines, its yellow glow penning in the group. Even from this distance, Julia can see that James is tiring. His head hangs and he kneads his forehead with the palm of one hand. He doesn’t only have the search to cause him worry, but he must also worry after Grace and their baby. As one of the officers reaches out to show something to the group, James and the others lean in. After a few moments, they stand back, almost in tandem, and shake their heads.
A few more words are exchanged and the group breaks up, the officers walking to their patrol car while James and the other men drift toward the church entrance. The group inside the basement breaks up too. Julia returns to her coffee, where she busies herself by straightening and counting the cups and saucers. Twenty-three won’t be enough. The room where they usually hold wedding receptions and celebrations of first communion is almost full. Resting her fingertips on the table’s edge, Julia says hello to Harry Bigsby, the only man to come for coffee. She slides a cup and saucer toward him and offers him cream.
“May I get you a plate, Harry?” she says, taking his corduroy cap and brushing lint from its brim before handing it back.
“Doesn’t look good,” he says, shaking off Julia’s offer. He dips his head in thanks and walks toward the center of the room.
James Richardson is the next to walk down the stairs. He removes his hat, pushes his fingers through his dark hair, and shakes his head. “Seems we’re done for the night,” he says.
Julia pulls her sweater closed. It’s her loosest cardigan and yet it’s too tight.
“Any of you ladies familiar with Elizabeth’s belongings?” James asks. “Familiar enough you might recognize a shoe?”
The room is silent, but unlike Julia, the others aren’t surprised. They shake their heads because this must be the news they were waiting for, the sign things would not end well for Elizabeth. Behind James and the other men who had been talking with the officers, Bill ducks under the threshold and stands, hat dangling from one hand. He nods in Julia’s direction to reassure her the twins are fine. After spending most of the morning with Julia, the girls had begged to go back home and promised to lock the doors and windows and pull closed the drapes. Bill, in turn, promised to check on them when he was out.
“Julia?” James says, searching the room until his eyes settle on her. “You think you would know Elizabeth’s things?” He is asking because everyone knows Julia was the last to see Elizabeth.
“I’m afraid not, James,” she says. “I suppose Grace best knows Elizabeth.” All around the room, people are staring at Julia. Some lower their eyes. Others look at her with wilted lids. “Or Charles. Won’t you know, Charles?”
“Found a shoe,” James says. “A few of the fellows did. They found it near Chamberlin and Willingham. Near the river. From what I saw, it’s white. Soft-soled. Small, that’s for sure. Not too beat-up. Doesn’t appear it’s been there long. Could belong to anyone, though. Just a shoe. But they say Elizabeth knew that street. Say she used to shop there with Ewa. Think she could have found her way down there and maybe it’s her shoe.”
Someone has handed Mr. Symanski a drink. He doesn’t look up from the sweaty glass he clutches between two hands. Before Ewa died, Elizabeth rode the bus with her mother. She learned to pick out tomatoes that weren’t too soft and bananas that were bright yellow and firm.
“Ask Grace, she’ll know,” Julia says again, hoping she repeats it because it’s true and not because she wants to remind people Grace saw Elizabeth that afternoon too.
“Police’ll see to it,” James says, pulls on his hat and disappears up the staircase that will lead him back to the parking lot and home to Grace.
Julia crosses the room, rests one hand on the back of Mr. Symanski’s chair, and squats at his side. “I’m so sorry, Charles,” she says, and manages a smile. “It doesn’t have to mean something bad. We have plenty of reason for hope.” She squeezes his arm, which is much thinner than she would have expected. “Let me get you a bite to eat. Something sweet to keep your strength up? I brought my rhubarb pie. No one beats my rhubarb pie. You know that’s true enough.”
“Everyone is doing much for my Elizabeth. They are caring very much for her, yes?”
“I saw her last,” Julia says, tugging again at her boxy cardigan.
“The police are telling me this.” Mr. Symanski brushes one hand across Julia’s hair and smiles as if Ewa’s hair must have once been red too, and he is remembering it fondly. “But there is being no need for what you are trying to say.”
“I should have watched her more closely.”
“You are always being good to my Elizabeth.” Beads of water from the cool glass drip onto his blue trousers. “These others are being unkind to you, yes? They are blaming you?”
“They’re troubled, is all,” Julia says. “We’re all troubled.”
While the men continue to eat their fried chicken and thick slices of Bundt cake, the ladies begin to pack up their dishes. They dash this way and that, their skirts fluttering about their calves, their heels in basic black and tan clicking across the gray-and-white speckled tile. Dishes and glassware knock against each other; spoons tap the rims of coffee cups. The ladies iron out their used sheets of aluminum foil, fold them, save them for another day. Perhaps tomorrow, when they gather again. Everyone is worrying Elizabeth may have drowned in the river. As sad as it is to consider, that’s what they are thinking. And because they fade away when Julia passes among them, it’s also clear they are wondering how Julia will ever live with what she has done. After all that Julia has already been through, how ever will she manage the strain?
CHAPTER SIX
While the adults spent the day at the church, Arie and Izzy stayed inside like they promised. Mostly they stayed in their room and looked out the window onto Alder Avenue, hoping to see something, anything. Down on Woodward, the hum of traffic built as the day wore on, and the faster the traffic soared by and the more cars that piled up, the louder the hum became and the more Arie and Izzy felt themselves left behind. When, after an entire afternoon, they saw nothing down on Alder except a few cars and one stray dog, they gave up on the window and plugged in their record player. Sitting like a small black suitcase on the end of Izzy’s bed, it had been waiting for the girls when they first arrived at Aunt Julia’s house. A gift for both of them. Propped up next to the small case had been a Tune Tote carrier filled with 45s. All afternoon, Arie spun those records, always especially careful when she lifted the needle at the end of a song so as to not scratch the vinyl. She wanted the music to last. Not that she really cared much for the records. None of her favorites were inside the pink carrying case anyway. It was mostly full of Peggy Lee and Frank Sinatra. What Arie did care about was making Izzy happy again so she didn’t do anything to cross Uncle Bill and Aunt Julia.