“Come with me to the cleaners?” Julia says, standing once the bus has stopped.
Grace shakes her head and slides back down onto the seat. “I’m not feeling well. I have enough in my freezer to get by. I think I’ll take the bus back home.”
Julia stretches over the seat to lay a hand on Grace’s forehead. “James mentioned you’d been feeling poorly. No fever.” She straightens. “Get some rest. I’ll call later, stop by before I go to the church.”
Julia slips into the aisle behind Malina Herze and plugs her nose as if smelling the urine from Malina’s flowerbeds. Again Grace resists the urge to smile. She lifts a hand to wave good-bye but quickly lowers it so no one will notice she forgot her gloves. Even before the bus has pulled away toward its last stop, where it will turn around to drive back up Woodward, Grace knows she’ll not come on the morning bus again. She can’t see the others because she is so changed. The other ladies are changed too, but not in a lasting way. Already they are easing back to a normal life, a life that won’t include Elizabeth Symanski. But Grace won’t ease back, and eventually they’ll notice. Eventually, they’ll want to know why.
Julia will be the first, maybe the only one, to raise questions with Grace. The others will be too polite, just as they’re too polite to mention an unfortunate lipstick color. They’ll assume it’s a private matter, perhaps a problem in Grace’s marriage or bad news regarding the baby, and they’ll be caring but distant because they won’t want Grace’s troubles to rub off on them. Julia, however, won’t concern herself with privacy or contagious problems. She’ll ask questions, many questions. She’ll be bold and persistent. She’ll come to Grace’s house, sweep the floors, wring the laundry, cook the meals. She’ll want to do the things Grace did for Julia when her daughter died. She’ll want to nurse Grace until she is well again. Julia will be a constant reminder that Grace’s life will never again be as it once was.
“Is there an afternoon bus to Willingham?” Grace calls up to the driver after the door has closed.
The bus pops and hisses and continues down Woodward.
Speaking to Grace through the rearview mirror, the driver says, “Twelve fifteen at Alder. That your street?”
“Thank you,” she says. “That’ll be fine.”
Aunt Julia won’t be home for hours. She’s off shopping with the other ladies, and that will keep her away all morning. Still, Izzy and Arie twice look up and down the street because it wouldn’t do for one of Aunt Julia’s friends to catch them outside. From somewhere north of Alder Avenue, a round of firecrackers explodes, one shooting off right on top of another. Grandma says they start earlier and earlier every year, and isn’t that a shame. Those firecrackers are like a starting pistol, and clutching a cold, wet bottle against her stomach, Izzy gives a wave and she and Arie take off running through the side yard that cuts between the Turners’ and Brandenbergs’ houses. The girls hit the alley and their feet slip in the dry dirt and kick up clouds of dust. They keep running even though their throats are dry and they need to spit and their legs are tired from going all the way to Beersdorf’s Grocery and back.
Izzy would have thought Arie would run all the way to Aunt Julia’s because she’s scared of the alley now, but something makes her shorten her stride, slow, and eventually stop. Straight ahead, a few yards past Mrs. Richardson’s garage, Mr. Schofield’s rusted old chair and sawed-off piece of wood sit in the middle of the alley. No sign of rusted old Mr. Schofield.
The girls had been halfway to Beersdorf’s Grocery before Arie realized where they were going. Izzy told her no one was twisting her arm and she could go on back home if she wanted. She knew Arie wasn’t brave enough for that, so they walked the rest of the way to Beersdorf’s, one block west and three blocks south, all the while watching for men who might be searching for Elizabeth. Every time they saw a car coming, they ducked behind a clump of bushes or the trunk of an elm. “Why bother walking all the way to Beersdorf’s when we don’t have any money?” Arie had said when they were halfway there. But money wasn’t the thing that kept Arie from wanting to go to Beersdorf’s.
Besides being afraid of the back alley, which seemed to make Arie afraid of everything, she didn’t want to go to Beersdorf’s because Aunt Julia didn’t shop there anymore. Arie figured there must be a good reason. Grandma always says there’s no moss growing under Aunt Julia and she wouldn’t do something, or not do something, without a good reason. Not too long ago, Aunt Julia did shop at Beersdorf’s and only took the bus to Willingham once or twice a week. Beersdorf’s couldn’t have turned into a bad place in such a short time. That’s what Izzy thought. Arie thought it didn’t take long at all for things to turn bad. Just look at a banana.
Slipping the Royal Crown under her shirt had been easy for Izzy. Mr. Beersdorf was more interested in the Negroes standing outside his shop than he was in keeping an eye on two girls. Loitering. That’s what people called what those Negroes were doing. Arie was more interested in those Negroes too. She was even scared of them, keeping both eyes on them the whole time they were in the store. She didn’t know a Royal Crown was tucked under Izzy’s shirt until they were down the street and around the corner and headed toward home. Several times during the walk back, Arie said, “How are you going to open that stolen bottle of pop?” Standing now in the middle of the alley and seeing the Richardsons’ garage door is wide open, and not wanting old Mr. Schofield to catch them breaking Aunt Julia’s rules, Izzy knows exactly how she’ll open this bottle of pop.
The Richardsons’ house is quiet. No sign of Mrs. Richardson or anyone else. Even though none of the ladies of Alder are working at the church this morning because it’s their turn to catch up on things around the house, they’ll all be on the bus to Willingham with Aunt Julia or down in their basements running their laundry through a wringer. Across the alley at Mr. Schofield’s house, a screen door squeals and slaps shut. The colored men have a schedule. That’s what Aunt Julia and Uncle Bill said. Not that it’s a dependable schedule, but worth knowing all the same. They like to catch the 10:00 a.m. bus, at least a few of them, as if they might have a job. They’re back again for the 5:15. No telling what goes on in the middle of the night. But be mindful, that’s what Uncle Bill said. Mr. Schofield must know about the schedule too.
Holding the wet bottle that isn’t so cold anymore against her stomach, Izzy yanks Arie toward the open garage. She follows for a few steps and then pulls away.
“I’m not going in there,” Arie says, keeping her voice low in case those are Mr. Schofield’s footsteps.
“Would you rather get a whipping from him?” Izzy points at the rusted old folding chair and gives Arie another yank.
Once inside the garage, the air is instantly cooler. They stand motionless, both of them holding their breath so they can hear better. No one shouts at them for being where they don’t belong. Izzy points toward the back of the garage, and once she’s sure there is no piece of wood tapping across the gravel outside, she walks to the wooden bench straight ahead and flips open the lid on Mr. Richardson’s toolbox. The musty smell and the gritty tools, which are mostly heavier than Izzy would have thought they would be, make her think about fathers and the things they keep and don’t keep around the house. She doesn’t know anything about fathers, but she does know the large tool that opens and closes wide enough to grab a bottle cap is called a pair of pliers. Yes, a pair of pliers should work real good.