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.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Inside 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.