“What is a man if he doesn’t have a job?” Jerry says.
Mr. Herze yanks Jerry toward him until they are standing close enough to whisper. Mr. Herze does most of the talking, though Malina can’t hear what is being said. He points toward the Lawsons’ home and shakes his head a few times.
“Wait,” Jerry shouts when Mr. Herze begins to walk away.
Mr. Herze stops, exhales, and circles back.
Jerry points at Malina, directly at Malina, and takes one step toward her.
“She knows,” he says. “Mrs. Herze knows.”
Malina slides next to the car, putting it between her and Jerry. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“You saw me,” Jerry says.
Mr. Herze jams a hand in the center of Jerry’s chest, preventing him from moving any closer to Malina.
“Tell him,” Jerry says. “Tell him you saw me from your car. I waved at you and you waved back.”
Malina leans into the sedan, not at all worried her yellow dress will pick up dust or grime. “What is all this about, Warren?” she says. “What ever has gotten into him?” She glances at the neighbors on either side, wondering who might hear. Most have already left for the church.
Mr. Herze drops the hand from Jerry’s chest and turns to Malina.
“I know you saw me,” Jerry says, stepping up beside Mr. Herze. “That Wednesday night. It was nearly eleven o’clock. I was here, in my very own driveway. You were driving that car.”
Mr. Herze stretches one arm across Jerry’s path but he keeps his eyes on Malina. “Malina?” he says.
“Yes,” Jerry says. “You remember. Betty was walking Cynthia. Pushing her in the stroller. I was nowhere near Willingham. Nowhere near that woman. Tell him, Mrs. Herze.”
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Mr. Lawson,” Malina says. This is why the counting and breathing don’t work. There’s never time. Shielding her eyes from the scantily clad Jerry Lawson, she says to Mr. Herze, “I don’t drive at night. And certainly not at that ridiculous hour. Tell him, Warren. Tell him how the glare bothers me so. I don’t know what this is all about, but I most assuredly have no comment on the matter.”
“You were driving that car,” Jerry says, pointing at the pale green sedan parked in front of Mr. Herze’s car, and again he tries to press forward, but he can’t get at Malina because Mr. Herze blocks the path with a stiff arm. “That car right there. You drove to the corner and turned down Woodward.”
Malina knows from many years of experience to keep her eyes on Mr. Herze. She knows not to let them drift to one side or the other. It’s how he knows she’s lying. “I’m sorry I can’t help you,” she says. “You’re mistaken, I’m afraid.”
Mr. Herze grips the front of Jerry’s rumpled undershirt, pulls him close, and speaks in a whisper. Jerry says nothing else, certainly nothing Malina can hear. Mostly he shakes his head. Signaling the conversation is over, Mr. Herze drops Jerry’s shirt, tucks in the front of his own shirt where his belly has pulled it loose of his trousers, and walks back to the house. Reminding herself to smile, Malina opens the passenger-side door, smooths under her skirt, and sinks into the front seat. She closes her eyes and rests her arms on her lap, her palms open, not touching anything. Outside, Mr. Herze walks back to the front porch, locks and pulls twice on the door, and joins Malina in the car.
“Warren,” Malina says, blinking because keeping good eye contact is more difficult when Mr. Herze is sitting this close. “Have you fired Jerry Lawson?”
It’s the question any wife would ask under normal circumstances.
“Him and three others.”
“Has it to do with those women on Willingham?” Malina reaches across the bench seat and rests one hand on Mr. Herze’s thigh. It’s the thing any wife would do. “Has it to do with the dead woman?”
“The police will see to it,” Mr. Herze says. “It’s of no concern to you.” With both hands on the steering wheel, he stares straight ahead at the back end of Malina’s car. “Is there truth to what he says?” His knuckles and the backs of his large hands are white from clutching the steering wheel. “Were you driving that night?”
“Why would I ever be out at such a late hour?”
Mr. Herze lets go of the steering wheel with one hand, pulls the lever to put the car into reverse, throws his arm over the seat back, and looks out the rear window. Malina looks too. The twins have reappeared on the porch and Bill Wagner stands between them.
“You’re quite certain,” Mr. Herze says, waving at Bill and the twins through his open window as the back of the car swings around and the front points down Alder Avenue.
Perhaps Malina should have told Mr. Herze the truth when he first asked. Yes, she was driving and she did see that ridiculous Jerry Lawson. And then a lie. It had been her night to deliver supper to the shut-ins and she’d forgotten. Yes, it was awfully late to be serving supper, but because she had felt so guilty for overlooking her responsibility, she took the food anyway. That’s the reason she drove down Alder that night. She wasn’t checking up on him or looking for the source of that nasty smell he brings into her house. But she hadn’t said any of those things. She’d lied, promised she’d been at home all evening, and it’s too late now for stories about shut-ins and supper trays. In answer to Mr. Herze’s question, Malina nods but doesn’t try to speak because her voice will crack and give her away. That’s another one of the things that always gets her in trouble.
“Very well,” Mr. Herze says, and throws the car into drive.
Mother came into Grace’s bedroom an hour ago, threw open the heavy curtains and white sheers she had closed the night before, and told Grace it was high time to get up. You’re feeling better, she said-a statement, not a question. No sense sleeping the day away. There’s food to be made and men to be fed. After taking Grace’s robe from the closet and laying it across Grace’s lap, Mother disappeared into the bathroom where she rummaged through the drawers. When she returned, she sat on the bed’s edge, dipped a small sponge into a heavy foundation, and dabbed at Grace’s cheek. After a few moments, Mother leaned back and lifted her face as if to get the best light. There must have been a red mark or possibly a bruise, but it was covered now and Mother said again for Grace to hustle herself on downstairs. Company was coming and it wouldn’t be fitting to sleep all day.
“Do you smell it?” Grace had said before Mother disappeared through the door.
Mother glanced at the open window but didn’t answer.
“The tobacco. The factories. Don’t you smell it?” Grace drew in a deep breath. “Do you remember them?”
The smell of damp tobacco, sweet and rich, floated across the city every morning of Grace’s childhood. When the weather was nice, she would wake beneath an open window and inhale, knowing the thick scent would be there. Many such factories stood then. Now, only a few.
“Don’t be silly,” Mother had said. “It’s the fireworks you smell. Time to get moving.”
At the bottom of the stairs, Grace holds on to the banister with one hand and rests the other on her stomach. It’s a habit, must be, because she doesn’t realize it’s there until a tiny foot, or maybe a knee, bumps her from the inside. All night, the baby was busy rolling and knocking about in Grace’s stomach. Now that Grace is awake, the baby will quiet down. The movement of Grace’s typical day-the comings and goings, hanging out the laundry, climbing the stairs, boarding the bus to Willingham-will calm the baby, soothe her. For the baby, all is unchanged and that’s enough to keep Grace on her feet.
There are voices coming from the kitchen. Two voices. Men. One is James, no mistaking that. The other is strained, barely clear. Grace stretches forward but doesn’t move her feet. Yes, that’s Mr. Symanski. Mother is whisking eggs in Grace’s frying pan and coffee bubbles up in the percolator. She is feeding Mr. Symanski. A pop. Toast popping up in the toaster. Two slices, slightly charred. They are always a bit overdone. Mother will scrape off the blackened crust with a serrated knife and dump the crumbs in the sink. Outside the house, car doors slam. A man shouts out to his wife, “Don’t forget the batteries.” It’s a reminder the search will go into the night.