“Today,” he says, rolling his head to the side so he can see Julia. “Today’s the day we find her.”
Directly in front of them, the rounded nose of an old gray Plymouth rolls up, and the driver’s-side door opens. Mr. Symanski pushes himself up and out of the car. Wearing a shirt and tie and a dark jacket that sags on his narrow shoulders, he shuffles no more than a few yards before one of the ladies glides up alongside him, takes hold of his arm, and escorts him to the front of one of two lines that snakes through the parking lot.
The lines are new this morning. As the neighbors and parishioners of St. Alban’s climb from their cars, they take their place at the end of one of them. Bill motions for Julia to do the same, while he joins the men gathered near the entrance to the church basement. Julia cradles in one arm the loaves of sweet bread she mixed up and baked this morning and takes her place at the back of the closest line.
All of the ladies, like Julia, are dressed in fitted jackets and tailored skirts. Already many are fanning themselves with old church bulletins and fussing about desserts that will spoil if forced to sit out in this rising heat. Julia glances at her watch. She promised the girls she would come home at lunchtime to grill them cheese sandwiches, but given the length of this line, she might still be waiting when noon rolls around, though for what, she isn’t sure.
“Why the holdup?” Julia asks the gentleman standing in the line next to her. She recognizes him and his wife from services but can’t remember their names.
“Taking names,” the man says. Without looking in Julia’s direction, he helps his wife slip off her peplum jacket.
“Who’s taking names? And for what purpose?” Julia hugs her sweet bread in hopes of keeping it warm. When she goes home at lunchtime, she’ll mix up four beef-and-corn casseroles to be baked at the church and served up for the men’s supper. She’ll definitely have to make a trip to the market tomorrow.
“Police,” the man’s wife says. A gold bobby pin has pulled loose at the nape of her neck and sparkles where it catches the light. “They’re recording who is here and who isn’t. They found her shoe, you know. Down by the river.”
Julia starts to ask why the police would do such a thing, but even though she doesn’t entirely understand, it’s clear enough they think who is or isn’t here might have some bearing on what did or did not happen to Elizabeth. It’s clear enough that had Elizabeth simply wandered off, the police would have no interest in who is or is not participating in the search.
The line doesn’t move as slowly as Julia had feared and when she reaches the front, Bill rejoins her. Two police officers sit behind a metal table, thick binders opened up before them. One asks questions of Bill and Julia; the other, of the man and his wife. Bill answers, giving their name, address, and the names of their neighbors on either side. He answers yes without even a glimpse of his surroundings when asked if he recognizes everyone he sees and answers no when asked if he has seen any strangers joining in the search. He also points out the two latter questions are, in fact, the same question asked two different ways.
“That’s the point,” the officer says.
Julia leans around Bill. “The point to what?” she asks.
The officer ignores her and says, “Have any neighbors, friends, or relatives failed to include themselves?”
Again, taking no time to consider his answer, Bill says, “No.”
Next to Bill and Julia, the man and his wife scan the people who mill about before answering the same question.
“Jerry Lawson,” the woman says, finally tucking in the loose-hanging pin.
The other officer nods as if she is not the first to mention that name.
“What of Jerry Lawson?” Bill says, resting both hands on the table. Even hunched over, Bill is taller than the man.
“He is not here,” the woman says while her husband remains silent. “They asked who is not here, so we told them.”
“Why on earth would you take it upon yourself to mention the Lawsons?” Julia says. “They’re not neighbors of yours. If they were, you might recall they have only recently become parents.” She smiles at the officer. “A few weeks ago. We would never expect them to be here with a new baby at home.”
“Actually, they adopted,” the woman says. “And we have every right to mention Jerry Lawson. Everyone here knows of his troubles.”
“A new baby is a new baby,” Julia says, more loudly than she had intended. Ladies toting casserole dishes and covered pots and pans and gentlemen escorting the ladies by the arm stop to listen. Julia frowns at them and waves them on their way. “It doesn’t much matter where that sweet baby came from.” And then, because news of Jerry Lawson standing in the middle of Alder wearing little more than his undergarments while arguing with Warren Herze has obviously made its way to St. Alban’s, she turns to the officer and says, “This woman is spreading gossip, and it stinks so bad she might as well be spreading manure. She knows Jerry Lawson’s troubles have nothing to do with Elizabeth Symanski or this search.”
Before Julia can say anything more, Bill wraps one hand around her wrist and squeezes, a signal she need say no more. He gives her a wink.
“No one is unaccounted for among this group,” he says to the officer. “Write that down. No one is unaccounted for.”
When the officer has asked his last question, Julia follows Bill toward the church basement. She feels it as they pass among the others waiting in line and climbing from their cars. The early assumption that Elizabeth would be found walking aimlessly down Woodward first gave way to the worry she wandered all the way to the river and now, because the police are taking names and asking questions, these early theories have given way to fears of a violent end for Elizabeth.
Mother’s pierogi. Walking into the kitchen, this is what Grace smells. Because James said so, Grace will stay home today while the other ladies work at the church. It’s for the best, Mother had whispered as James gathered his things to leave for the day, and Grace had to agree even though she felt guilty for having nothing to contribute. With her back to Grace, Mother stands at the stove. Her elbow juts out to the side and moves in a small circle. She is stirring the pierogi so they don’t stick. Already, Mother has made enough of the crescent-shaped noodles to cover two trays. Potato and onion. They were always Grace’s favorite.
“Will you take them to the church?” Grace says.
Mother nods, pulls a cast-iron pot from the oven, and motions for Grace to take a seat. Wearing mitts on both hands, Mother carries the large pot to the table, sets it in front of Grace, lifts the lid, and lets the padded mitts drop from her hands. With her fingers, she plucks a damp towel from inside the large pot and tests that it’s not too hot by tossing it from hand to hand. Once satisfied with its temperature, she rolls it up and presses it to Grace’s neck and shoulders.
“He wanted to check in on you,” Mother says, returning to her noodles. “Called three times while you were sleeping. I told him you were fine and spent the morning rolling out pierogi.”
Grace grabs hold of the warm towel with both hands and draws it around her neck. “So he knew you were lying,” she says with a laugh, but stops herself when the small slit on her upper lip tears open. Holding the towel in place with one hand, she flips open the newspaper left on the table since breakfast. A few days ago, she searched the paper for news of the dead woman on Willingham, mostly for Julia’s benefit-something to talk about other than the baby in the corner. Today, she’s looking for news of Elizabeth and of herself, though she won’t find anything about what happened to her.
Mother walks back to the table, this time with a plate of warm pierogi. She places them in front of Grace, pours a glass of milk, and slides the salt within reach. “You’ll want some of that nice pink lipstick today,” she says. “It’ll freshen you up.” And then, waving a hand at the swell in Grace’s belly, she says, “Go on and eat. You need to eat.”