As Grace cuts her pierogi into thirds, the thing she has done since she was a child, Mother fishes half a dozen noodles from the potato water and taps them out on a sheet of waxed paper.
“Any sign?” Mother says, dropping the last few uncooked noodles in the pot. When Grace doesn’t answer, Mother gives another wave in the direction of Grace’s belly. “Having a man so close to the end can spur a baby on. Any sign she’s thinking about coming early?”
Grace shakes her head.
“Drink that milk then, and let’s go.”
Grace follows Mother out the kitchen door, down the concrete stairs, and toward the back of the house. At the garage, Mother lifts its heavy door and throws it overhead.
“Can’t be afraid in your own home,” Mother says, stepping into the garage. She kicks at a small sliver of glass and motions for Grace to join her.
“I’m not afraid,” Grace says. “In a day or two. I’ll come out in a day or two.”
“Today.” Mother tucks under her skirt, sinks to her knees, and picks up glass Grace missed the night before. “Now. Or it’ll sink in. It’ll get the better of you.”
Grace looks down the alley and then out toward the street.
“It’s not yet noon on a Sunday,” Mother says, tossing a few pieces of glass in the garbage can. “Damn fool like that isn’t going to be out and about on a Sunday morning.” She gives another nod, directing Grace inside. “You check over there. Won’t do if this glass finds its way into one of James’s tires.”
Grace might have thought panic would swell up as she entered the garage. She might have thought her breathing would quicken, her heart would begin to pound, sweat would break out across her brow and upper lip. But all is quiet. She floats deep into the garage. The outside air had ruffled her skirt, but inside, the air stops. Her hair hangs down her back, held off her face by a white silk scarf. Her skin is cool and dry. She lowers herself onto hands and knees, lays one hand flat on the dirt floor, and moves it slowly and lightly from side to side, searching for bits of glass.
“Put that damn fool thing away.”
It’s Mother. She has left the garage and disappeared into the alley. Grace pushes herself to her knees. Now her chest begins to lift and lower. Her breathing does quicken. Her heart does pound.
“Good Lord in heaven.” It’s still Mother. “You are the damnedest old fool I ever laid eyes on.”
Two faces pop around the corner of the garage. The twins. Their skin is tanned and freckles pepper the bridge of their noses and the rounds of their cheeks. Their long red hair has been woven into braids, two on each girl. One raises a hand. A wave. Julia is next to appear. Her red hair has been tightly wound and pinned on top of her head. Because she wears her nicer heels and her linen skirt, Grace knows she’s been to the church already today. Grace walks over to one of the garbage cans, lifts its lid, and lets glass tumble from her hand.
“Your mother is about to clobber Orin Schofield,” Julia says, a white porcelain casserole dish cradled in her hands. She must have gotten word Grace wasn’t feeling well and she’s brought food. “You better get out here.”
Across the alley, Orin Schofield stands near his garage and holds the same piece of wood he carried the night Elizabeth disappeared.
“It was one of those two,” he says, jabbing the board at the twins.
“Quit your fussing,” Mother says. “And get yourself back inside.”
“I saw them running.” Orin stabs at the air again. “Running right there. One of them, anyway. Just last night. Right there. Broke my damn window, they did.”
“A window was broken?” Grace asks. Once outside the garage, her pounding heart slows and the air is easier to inhale
“Third one in two nights,” Orin says, dropping the board to his side, leaning on it and pulling a kerchief from his front pocket. He mops his eyes and neck. “And they set my garbage on fire. My garbage. Damn near burned down my house. Thought it was those colored boys from down the block. Thinking maybe I was wrong.”
Julia shakes her head. “Orin, you think these two put a match to your garbage? They aren’t even allowed out of the house. Bill has threatened to take a belt to their backsides if they disobey. And believe me, they won’t risk that.”
“We didn’t break your old window.” It’s Izzy. Arms crossed, one hip thrust to the side, she faces Orin. “Or set fire to your stinky garbage.”
“Manners, Izzy.”
The other twin, Arie, stares at Grace. Her eyes seem to settle on Grace’s split lip. When Grace glances her way, the girl lowers her eyes to the ground.
“Mr. Schofield, sir,” Izzy says. “We did not break your window or burn up your garbage.”
“What about that one?” Orin says, poking the board in Arie’s direction. The collar of his white shirt is too big for his neck, as if he’s shrunk over the years, and his pants pucker where he’s pulled his belt too tight. “That one have anything to say?”
Arie slides backward, shaking her head.
“That’s enough, Orin,” Julia says, handing the casserole dish to Grace and taking a step toward Orin. “You’re frightening the girls. You brought those broken windows on yourself. Running your mouth down at the Filmore. Brought it all on yourself. If you’ve anything else to say, you take it up with Bill.”
“I said it before,” Mother says, stretching overhead and pulling closed the garage door. “And I’ll say it again. Get on inside, you old goat.”
Orin hobbles to his garage, leaning on his board as he goes, then grabs a rusted metal folding chair from inside and pops it open at the alley’s edge. “Don’t let me catch the two of you poking around my house.” Orin slaps the chair’s canvas back and brushes off its seat. “See this chair? It and I will be here in this alley every day. I’ll be keeping an eye out. Keeping an eye out for you two or whoever else is causing trouble. You know what’s best,” he says, lowering himself into the seat, “you won’t let me catch you.”
Day 4
CHAPTER TEN
It’s Monday morning and traffic is light along Woodward. It’s as if everyone in the city has spent these past few days searching for Elizabeth and is exhausted by it. Pressing one hand against the seat back in front of her as the bus pulls away and letting the other rest on the swell in her stomach, Grace hopes none of the ladies will notice she has forgotten her white gloves. She must have overlooked them on her bedroom dresser or possibly on the table near the back door.
Before leaving to catch the bus this morning, Grace had touched Mother on the sleeve and said, “I think I should tell.”
Setting aside the broom she had been pushing across the kitchen floor, Mother covered Grace’s hand with one of her own. “It’s Monday,” she said. “Go to Willingham. Fill your cupboards. They’ll be needing more food down at that church.”
“It might help the police.” Grace lingered in the doorway. “What if those men, that man, did the same to Elizabeth? What if he does it again? James’s only concern will be for me. For the baby.”
“Heaven help that child if those men got her,” Mother said, holding open the door so Grace could pass. “But your telling won’t change that.” Then she smoothed Grace’s blond hair, a reminder to keep her makeup fresh and her hair carefully combed, pinned, and sprayed. A pretty face will keep peace in the house.
“Don’t think more of your husband than you should,” Mother had said. “Don’t make that mistake.”
Continuing down Woodward, the bus gathers speed and the morning air, just beginning to warm, rushes through the open windows. Reaching up with one bare hand, Grace holds her pillbox hat in place. The other ladies don’t bother with hats anymore. They don’t care to ruin their new, higher hairstyles, but today Grace wears her gray pillbox with the velvet trim she normally wears only on Sundays. It covers the small gash on the back of her head she worries might be seen. She shifts her weight from one hip to the other to avoid the cross-breeze. Not meaning to, she lets out a soft groan. Mother said Grace’s tailbone is only bruised and she shouldn’t carry on about it.