“Have a seat,” she whispers to Arie. “I’ll have this open in no time.”
The tangy smell of fireworks has followed them into the garage. It’s growing stronger, as if someone close is shooting them off.
“I’m not drinking any of that stolen pop,” Arie says. She slips far enough into the garage that no one will be able to see her, crosses her arms over her chest like she’s hugging herself, and sinks into the rough wooden wall.
Izzy wrenches off the cap, takes a long drink, coughing because the bubbles swell up in her throat, and says, “Suit yourself.” She takes another drink, holds up the bottle to check how much is left, and from the middle of the garage she points at the south wall. “Look there,” she says. “We could use that.”
Walking across the dirt floor, Izzy shivers, maybe from the cooler air or maybe from the stolen pop racing through her veins, and lifts a length of rope from the hook where it hangs. She can almost taste the smoke in the air now.
“Could be a leash for Patches,” she says, starting to take another drink but stopping because her stomach doesn’t feel so good.
“You stealing rope now too?” Arie asks, and smiles because she knows Izzy’s stomach hurts. “Don’t bother. That’s way too big for a cat.”
“Yeah,” Izzy says, watching for any sign of Mr. Schofield. “You’re probably right. Good jump rope, though.”
“Now, this would make a good leash.” Arie slides a few more feet into the garage and nudges whatever it is with her toe as though testing to see if it’s alive.
Izzy tosses the rope over one shoulder and joins her. “What is it?” she says. The smell of something burning grows stronger as Izzy walks toward Arie. It’s probably the boys who live a block past Tuttle Avenue. Aunt Julia says boys who grow up find trouble to stir up. Before Izzy and Arie climbed into Uncle Bill’s car, their suitcases already stowed in the trunk, Grandma had pointed at Izzy and told her not to get any ideas about boys. She jabbed her finger twice, even poking Izzy in the chest the second time, and said it again. We won’t have any accidents in this house, Grandma had said. And when she asked if Izzy understood, she nodded even though she hadn’t.
“Looks like old clothes and things,” Arie says. “Must be Mrs. Richardson’s stuff.”
Reaching into one of the bags, Arie pulls out a thin white belt. Tiny pink and white jewels cover the small round buckle. She threads one end of the belt through the buckle and pulls it until the belt is the size of a cat’s neck. “It’s perfect,” she says in a loud voice.
Izzy leaps forward and slaps a hand over Arie’s mouth. They stand still and listen. A few quiet moments pass. No sign of Mr. Schofield. Izzy drops her hand from Arie’s mouth.
“Sorry,” Arie whispers.
Izzy tilts her head and raises her brows at Arie. Usually, Arie is the one giving this look to Izzy. “How come it’s okay for you to steal?” Izzy asks as she walks over to the six brown bags lined up against the wall, where Mr. Richardson won’t hit them with his car. “But not okay for me?” She pulls out a blouse by its sleeve and lets it float back into the bag.
“It’s not stealing. She’s throwing all this out. It’s with the trash.”
Both girls stop talking and Izzy crosses a finger over her lips. On the other side of the garage, something creaks, like the old metal legs of an old rusted folding chair groaning under the weight of an old Mr. Schofield. Placing one foot directly in front of the other because that’s the quietest way, Izzy walks toward the back of the garage and presses an ear to the cool wall. Hearing nothing more and forgetting her upset stomach, she takes another drink but the Royal Crown has turned warm. They’ll have to peek outside to see if Mr. Schofield is sitting in his chair. If he is, they could be stuck here until suppertime.
“This must have fallen out of one of the bags.” Izzy whispers loudly enough for only Arie to hear and stoops to pick up a lady’s white dress shoe from the dirt floor. Letting it dangle from one finger, she holds it up to inspect it in better light and to give Arie a good look at it.
“That shoe is lots bigger than the ones in the bags.” Arie moves closer, but not too close. “And it’s almost new. It’s Mrs. Richardson’s.”
“They’re all Mrs. Richardson’s,” Izzy says, scanning the dirt floor for a spot to dump the rest of the pop.
“But this one is bigger. Pregnant women buy bigger shoes. This shoe isn’t supposed to be garbage.”
“What does pregnant have to do with anything?”
“Don’t you remember Aunt Julia’s feet? Remember how spongy they got?” Arie waves a hand in front of her face, obviously smelling the same nasty smoke Izzy smells. “Remember how we went to Hudson’s and she bought big shoes? This is one of Mrs. Richardson’s big pregnant shoes.”
Izzy remembers going to Hudson’s but shakes her head anyway. She doesn’t like thinking about anything that has to do with Maryanne. They visited once and the baby was there, filling up Aunt Julia’s house. When they visited again, she was gone, and the house has been empty ever since, hollow even.
“Well, we can’t ask her if it’s hers,” Izzy says, being careful to whisper, but it’s hard to do when she gets this annoyed with Arie. “Better put it back with the others.” She rubs the shoe against her shirt, buffing off the dirt, and tosses it toward Arie.
Never one to easily catch a ball, Arie lunges, reaches out, but the shoe sails past her and she falls into one of Mr. Richardson’s garbage cans. The lid topples off and a cloud of smoke erupts from the silver can and rolls up into the air.
Arie slaps a hand over her mouth, and Izzy drops her pop bottle.
“The lid,” Izzy whispers, jabbing a finger at the lid lying on the ground, but then waves Arie off. “No, stop. It’ll be hot.” Grabbing a skirt from one of the bags, Izzy wraps it around her hand, picks up the lid by its edge, and tosses it toward the can. It misses, bouncing off the rim and landing near Arie’s feet.
“You better come on out of there,” a voice shouts.
It’s Mr. Schofield. The girls flap their arms at the rising smoke and back away from the growing flame.
“Got myself a rifle out here,” Mr. Schofield shouts.
Izzy grabs Arie. “It’s us, Mr. Schofield,” she says, hugging Arie to her. “Mr. Schofield, it’s just us.”
Even though Izzy can’t see Mr. Schofield, can only hear him, she knows he’ll be walking with a limp, almost dragging his right leg as if that side of his body is heavier than the other. One shoulder will be sagging forward and his jowls will be drooping. They wobble when he walks or talks. It’s the polio he had as a child, Aunt Julia once told them. It never quite leaves a person and now it’s eating him away from the inside out. She says Izzy and Arie are lucky they’ll never have to worry about ending up like Mr. Schofield.
“Come on out,” Mr. Schofield shouts again. “I smell your goddamned fire.”
“No, Mr. Schofield. It’s us. It’s us.”
“Goddamn you and your fire.”
Izzy pulls Arie deeper into the garage, into the farthest, darkest corner. “It’s us, Mr. Schofield. It’s Arie and Izzy.”
But Mr. Schofield doesn’t hear.
“Come on out or I start firing.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Once off the bus, Malina hurries across Willingham while the other ladies linger to stare at the warehouse. Positioned squarely at the T-junction where Willingham Avenue dead-ends into Chamberlin, the white stone building stands three stories high. Its windowsills are chipped and crumbling as if it’s sinking into the footings, and the doorways are boarded over. This is where those Negro women gather to show themselves to the husbands. Some say the women strip themselves of their blouses and undergarments so the men will want them more.