“You’ll sleep well?” Julia says, smoothing Arie’s hair off her face and kissing each cheek. At Izzy’s bed, Julia does the same. Bill appears in the doorway, leans there but says nothing. “I have early rhubarb in the refrigerator. Pink and sweet. You girls can mix up your pie tomorrow. Something fun to do while Uncle Bill and I are at the church.” Looking down on Izzy, she says, “There has to be something you’re not telling me. Did you two behave today?”
“I didn’t do anything,” Izzy says, folding her arms and kicking off her sheets and covers. “It’s not my fault she’s completely bats.”
“You sure do favor your mama when you talk like that,” Julia says, and then is sorry for it.
Izzy rolls away at the mention of Sara, Julia’s sister. All the girls know of their mother is what they see when they look at Julia.
Julia switches off the lamp and, outside the girls’ door, cuts out the hallway light. She pulls the door halfway closed and says, “Remember, pie in the morning.”
“Aunt Julia,” Arie says. It’s Arie because Izzy won’t speak to Julia until morning, not after the mention of Sara.
“Yes, sugar.”
Arie pulls loose of the tightly tucked covers and pushes herself into a sitting position, not intending to sleep for a long time. “Elizabeth is never going to come home.”
Arie waits until Aunt Julia has pulled the door closed, but not all the way closed because the girls like a slice of light from the hallway to shine into the room, and she waits some more until Izzy has rolled away and yanked the top sheet over her shoulder. When Izzy’s breathing changes from short puffs of air she exhales because she’s angry with Aunt Julia into long, slow breaths that mean she is asleep, Arie slips one finger under the rosary hung from her headboard and drapes it across her lap.
Grandma has always said the rosary is made of mother-of-pearl beads and that’s why it’s something special. But then Izzy will say mother-of-pearl beads don’t splinter and chip and that rosary is no more special than any other. Every night back home at Grandma’s house, Arie runs her fingers over the smooth beads, usually while holding them under the sheet she has tented with two bent knees. Even though she tries to hide her praying from Izzy, Izzy always knows.
When she was younger, Arie would pray for Mama to come home and sometimes still does. Then there was the Russian dog. Arie prayed only five prayers a night for her and never told Izzy or anyone else because praying for a Russian, even if she was a dog, was probably a sinful thing to do. Izzy says Arie doesn’t do it right anyway. She is supposed to recite Our Father and Hail Mary and follow a path around the beads. This is why Arie hides them and waits until Izzy is asleep. Tonight, as she slips her fingers from the first round, cool bead to the next, she thinks she’ll say twenty prayers for Elizabeth. Or maybe twenty isn’t enough. Maybe she’ll pray all night until morning comes and somewhere along the way, she’ll say a prayer for Mrs. Richardson, too.
Day 3
CHAPTER EIGHT
It came down directly from the bishop. A special dispensation, he called it. No Mass on this Sunday morning. Every parishioner was excused. The search for Elizabeth was far more important and wouldn’t the good Lord agree. Malina was certain He would.
This morning, Malina has flyers for the men to nail on lampposts and tape in store windows. Mr. Herze had one of the girls in his office make them on a machine at work-a perfect, crisp stack of one hundred flyers, one exactly like the next. A marvel, really, and a blessing in a situation such as this. With the stack tucked securely under one arm, Malina kicks open the kitchen door, the pan of butternut rolls she carries still warm. At the car, she sets the rolls and flyers on the backseat, tucks under her skirt, and stoops to her flowers.
The snapdragons have sprouted early this year. The red, yellow, and pink blossoms draw a colorful border that extends along the front of her property and follows the walkway to her front porch. She reaches into the towering plants and yanks out a dandelion, inspects the threadlike roots, sniffs them, and tosses the weed aside. Another strange smell, but this time, it has polluted her flowers. This is her third visit to the car, and with every trip, the smell grows more robust, as if gaining strength as the day heats up. Whatever the source, it’s not the roots of a dandelion.
All along Alder Avenue, wives click up and down their sidewalks because, although there is no Mass today, it’s Sunday and they feel obliged to wear their leather heels, slender skirts, and white gloves. They carry trays of fried chicken and meatloaves baked early this morning. Others carry desserts, finger foods the men can easily grab. Something sweet and frosted to lift their spirits. Directly across the street, a burst of laughter erupts and those two young girls tumble out of Julia Wagner’s front door. Oversize gardening gloves dangle from their hands. Their wiry arms and legs are bare. Once on the porch, where they must remember the block is praying for Elizabeth Symanski’s safe return, the twins silence themselves, walk down the stairs to the front yard, kneel on the sidewalk that leads to the street, and begin to pull weeds.
It’s been the same since the twins were three years old. Early every summer, Bill Wagner pulls in the drive in time for supper and two girls crawl out of his backseat. When they were younger, they would wear sweet plaid dresses with puffed sleeves and Peter Pan collars. Wearing a full bib apron, Julia would greet them and kiss each on top of her head. But this year, instead of lace-trimmed dresses worn thin at the seams, the girls wear matching navy shorts and blue-and-white striped blouses. Malina didn’t get a good look at the one she saw last night because it was too dark, but this morning, it’s apparent they’ve grown up in the past year. They’ve let their red hair grow well beyond their shoulders and their cheeks have thinned out. It’s also apparent their skin is a darker shade. Obviously they are allowed to play outside unattended for hours each day. Their legs, too, are changed. They are longer, thinner. Their hips, straight and narrow. Their arms, slender, even frail. They could almost be mistaken for young women.
If not for the color of their hair, they could almost be mistaken for Malina.
At the sound of her own front door opening, Malina pushes back on her knees. Mr. Herze’s hard-soled shoes hit the wooden porch. The screen door slaps shut. Staring across the street, most probably at those two girls, Mr. Herze mops his forehead with a white kerchief. He is already suffering though the day has yet to heat up. Malina greets him with a wave and lifts a forearm to wipe the perspiration from her top lip, but stops short of touching herself because that smell has grown stronger. It’s urine. She’s smelling urine.
“I’m making a mushroom soufflé this evening,” she says, staring down at her bare hands. Someone has urinated on her flowers. “I hope you’ll be able to make it home for supper. These long days will take their toll.”
Without bothering to lock the front door, Mr. Herze marches across the porch and stomps down the stairs and toward the street. “Not in my yard, Jerry Lawson,” he shouts.
Malina stands, holding her arms out to her sides so as not to touch herself with soiled hands, and looks for what has drawn Mr. Herze’s attention. It’s Jerry Lawson, coming at them from across the street. He wears blue-and-white broadcloth boxers and a V-neck cotton undershirt. At the curb, Mr. Herze stops, stretches his shoulders back, which causes his large stomach to jut out, and lifts a flattened palm toward Jerry, who is fast approaching.
“Don’t you come any closer,” Mr. Herze says.
Jerry stops in the middle of the street. His lower jaw is gray with a heavy shadow. His undershirt is untucked; his boxers, rumpled. He wears only stockings on his feet. Across the street, the twins have disappeared inside. Jerry reaches out to Mr. Herze, not to shake hands, but as if he wants to brace himself on Mr. Herze’s arm.