Standing on the outskirts of the group, almost as if she is not one of them, is the girl. Malina worried that she might not recognize her, but even from this distance, almost a full block away, there is no doubt. The girl has a kind of grace about her, probably due to her slender limbs and long neck. Wondering if the girl has smooth skin, Malina takes a few more steps toward the group. Slowly, as if the girl senses someone staring at her, her head rolls to the side and she looks back at Malina. Other heads turn. A few of the women push themselves off the ground. Others cross arms over their chests.
A tall, round woman with heavy legs sticking out from a black skirt stands in the center of the group. She has narrow shoulders, flabby arms, and surprisingly large hips. Like the others, she turns to face Malina, but even as she turns, the large woman doesn’t move the hand that clutches the handle of a baby carriage. This woman is much taller than the one who frightened Malina in the alley that night, though she does bear the same unfortunate shape. The woman takes a step toward Malina, and yet she doesn’t let go of the carriage. She is protecting it, protecting the baby inside, from Malina.
There couldn’t possibly be more than one such carriage. The one parked in the middle of the street has the same large metal wheels, the same black canopy, and if Malina could get close enough, it would have the same squeal as the one the girl pushed. This large woman, however, is built like someone who has birthed a baby-full roomy hips, soft sagging arms. It hadn’t seemed possible Mr. Herze’s girl could be the mother. Her hips were narrow; her legs, frail and lean. That night on Willingham, the girl must have been watching over the baby, doing a favor for the real mother. It makes sense she would be kind. Mr. Herze likes proper manners and polite conversation. He appreciates kindness. His girl is graceful and considerate. It shouldn’t be a surprise. While Mr. Herze’s girl is clearly not the dead one, there is no need to peek inside that carriage.
Back on Willingham, the ladies will be finishing their shopping. They’ll gather now inside Nowack’s Bakery, where they’ll buy up all the apple cakes. It’s the thing Mrs. Nowack bakes every Monday and probably what drew many of the ladies to Willingham today when they might otherwise have preferred to stay away. Malina will want to get to the bakery to buy one of the cakes for Mr. Herze before they’re gone. He does like a slice, lightly dusted with confectioner’s sugar, before bed. Once Doris Taylor and the others have had their say with Mrs. Nowack, no one will be buying anything.
Malina should feel some relief that the child is not Mr. Herze’s doing, but there’s still the matter of Jerry Lawson pointing at her and accusing her. He might storm across the street again, give Mr. Herze reason to doubt Malina. She really does wish she hadn’t lied. After a few backward steps, those Negro women staring at her all the while, Malina swings around, no longer concerned if her heels slap loudly against the concrete, and walks back to Willingham and Nowack’s Bakery as quickly as her slender skirt and three-quarter-sleeve jacket will allow.
Two weeks before Grace was to marry James, Mother said it was high time Grace learn to make pierogi. Mother stood at Grace’s stove and shook her head. “Butter will scorch,” she had said, and slid the pan of simmering onions to a cool burner. They tried again two days later. What else could Grace offer if not a warm supper every night? On the second day, Grace strained the cooked potatoes, pouring the water down the drain. Again, Mother shook her head. Her recipe said to retain the water from the cooked potatoes. Grace boiled a half-dozen more and Mother sighed at the waste. Mother gave up after the third try, when Grace added too much filling to the pierogi. Grace crimped the edges with a knuckle as she had seen Mother do, but she had rolled the dough too thin, and each crescent-shaped dumpling split when she dropped it into the boiling pot. Cheesy potato filling clouded the water.
“What else have you to offer?”
Setting a bowl of pierogi dough on the kitchen table where she can lean over it and use her weight, Grace presses, folds and turns the dough, presses, folds and turns. Mother’s dough is always smooth and elastic. Grace’s sticks to her fingers in heavy white clumps. Stepping off the early-morning bus that returned her to Alder well ahead of the other ladies, Grace had thought the cooler, drier air of early day would help her dough. If this batch of pierogi turns out well, she’ll send them to the church with James and then make and freeze more for the bake sale. She adds another spoonful of flour, and with the heel of her hand, begins again. Hearing a shout from the back alley, she straightens, nearly knocking the bowl to the floor.
“You better come on out of there.” And then, “Got myself a rifle…”
With the back of one sticky hand, Grace first pushes aside the curtains in the back door, and even knowing he won’t be there, she looks for James. There is more shouting, though this time, it isn’t a man’s voice. Grace wipes her hands on her apron as she sidesteps to the kitchen window, picking blobs of dough from between her fingers as she goes. Smoke rolls out of the garage in a thin plume. Now she considers the telephone, but there is no number to call for James. He’ll be out on Woodward or down near the river, hoping not to find a body that has floated to the surface. She throws open the back door.
“It’s us, Mr. Schofield.” Again, a girl’s voice. “It’s only us.”
In the alley near Grace’s garage, Orin Schofield stands, a rifle of some sort braced against his shoulder. The rising smoke has changed from white to black.
“Orin,” Grace shouts. “Put that away.”
Walking in a wide arch that keeps her far from the open garage and clear of Orin’s aim, Grace waves away the smell of the smoke. She used to close the garage door for James every morning. After he’d leave for work, she would finish washing the breakfast dishes and then wander through the backyard, maybe pulling a weed or two, watering her bushes, snapping off her marigolds’ brown, withered blossoms, and eventually close the garage door. She didn’t follow him this morning, might never follow him again.
“Who is it?” Grace shouts into the garage. “Who’s in there?”
The girls appear, one dragging the other by the arm. That’s Izzy in front and Arie trailing behind.
“We didn’t do it,” Izzy says, moving away from the black smoke.
The rising column has thinned. Orange sparks flutter into the air and die out.
“It’s the trash can,” Izzy says. “It’s a fire in the trash can.”
“Orin,” Grace shouts again, waving the girls toward her. “Put that gun away. Girls, here. Come here. Orin, it’s Izzy and Arie.”
Orin stands on the other side of the smoky cloud. He taps the side of the garage with the barrel of his rifle. “Come on out,” he shouts. “Come out of that goddamned garage.”
“Orin, please.” Grace gathers the twins under the maple. She runs her hands over their arms, cups the face of each and scans them for any sign they’ve been hurt. “Stay here,” she says, pushing away Arie’s hand when she tries to grab Grace by the arm.
The crack of the rifle makes Grace stumble. She grabs for the baby. An instinct. Next she reaches for the girls. They run to her, together scooping Grace, one on each side. Another shot. Grace is back on her feet. She corrals the girls, pulls them close. They huddle together under the hard maple, all three inhaling what the others exhale. As the silence widens, Grace straightens to her full height. She brushes back the girls hair, checks them over again. One of the girls, Izzy because Arie wouldn’t be so bold, hugs Grace’s stomach and presses an ear over the baby.