“You were shot at?” Aunt Julia says, first grabbing Arie and then Izzy. Like Mrs. Richardson did, she pushes the hair off their faces to check for cuts or bruises, trails her fingers along their arms, rolls their hands from front to back. “You’re not hurt?”
“He didn’t really shoot at…”
“Stop,” Aunt Julia says. “Not another word. You were forbidden… forbidden to leave this house.” She stands and paces the length of the sofa. Whenever Aunt Julia gets angry, her voice slips back to where it’s most comfortable. Her Southern twang, Uncle Bill likes to call it. “I told you, didn’t I? Didn’t I make it clear? Didn’t I make it crystal clear? My God, that bowed-up fool shot at you?”
Arie waits for Izzy to answer, but even she must have decided it best to keep quiet.
“Well,” Aunt Julia says. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”
“We were only looking for Patches,” Izzy says. “We’ll never find her if we can’t go outside.”
“Don’t you dare get smart with me.”
Uncle Bill walks to the entry, sets his groceries next to the bag Aunt Julia dropped, and returns. He rests his hands on Aunt Julia’s shoulders. His dark eyes always have a way of looking sad. Grandma says those dark, sad eyes are what snagged Aunt Julia. Grandma says women, all ages and all types, have a softness for sad eyes.
“Why don’t you two go out front for a few minutes,” Uncle Bill says, leaning around Aunt Julia. He is the only one who makes Aunt Julia look small. “Let me and your aunt talk in private.”
Arie waits for Izzy to stand first, then follows her to the front door.
“Do not even think about leaving that yard,” Aunt Julia says, swatting away Uncle Bill’s hands and flopping down on the center of the sofa. “Am I understood?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Izzy says.
“Yes, ma’am,” Arie says.
Izzy gives an extra tug on the front door to make sure it’s closed and lets the screen door slam, something she knows will upset Aunt Julia. The men and the police car are no longer at Mrs. Herze’s house. Arie exhales, thinking that is a good sign, then drops down on the first stair and slides over to make room for Izzy. But instead of joining Arie, Izzy grabs the rope she found in Mrs. Richardson’s garage and marches across the porch. Mrs. Richardson had been too worried about the fire and gunshots at her house to notice the rope Izzy had carried from the garage or the thin belt that had been wrapped like a bandage around Arie’s hand. Once down the stairs, Izzy walks to the very end of the sidewalk. She stands there, hands on hips, and even though she doesn’t say it, she’s thinking about stepping from their yard onto Alder and disobeying Aunt Julia all over again. Aunt Julia would say Izzy is chugged-full of angry, though Arie isn’t exactly sure about what.
Taking one end of the rope in each hand, Izzy lets it hang to the ground and, with a single swing, begins to skip. She twirls the rope faster and faster, slapping it against the hot concrete, probably thinking the noise will make Aunt Julia mad too, except it really isn’t all that loud.
Across the street at Mr. and Mrs. Herze’s house, a big blue car pulls into their drive. One of the car’s doors swings open and a black shoe appears. The rest of Mr. Herze follows. Without closing his door, he walks down the driveway using long strides, crosses the street, and marches directly up to Arie and Izzy. They’ve never been so close to Mr. Herze. He smells like Uncle Bill’s Sunday cologne, except much stronger, and his stomach pushes against his white shirt, making it look like his buttons might pop right off if he were to take a deep breath. He examines the girls just as Mrs. Richardson and Aunt Julia did, except when his hands run over their arms, they’re rough and dry and cold even though it’s hot outside.
“Your uncle is home, girls?” he says, brushing aside Izzy’s hair and then Arie’s. “You’re unharmed?”
“Yes, sir,” Izzy says.
Arie says nothing but slides one foot away and drags the other to meet it.
“Warren,” Mrs. Herze calls out from her side of the street. “What’s brought you home so early?” She waves one hand overhead and teeters on the edge of the curb. Her dark hair makes her white skin look plastic. Everything about Mrs. Herze shines like it’s store-bought.
Mr. Herze doesn’t answer. His eyes dart back and forth between Izzy and Arie. “Don’t let that Orin Schofield frighten you,” he says, his eyes landing on Izzy and sticking there. “He actually take a shot at you?”
“Not at us, sir,” Izzy says. “At the garage. In the dirt. Don’t think he meant to hurt anyone.”
“Shall I fix you something, Warren?” Mrs. Herze shouts, louder this time. She takes one step into the street. “A sandwich?” She continues to wave a hand overhead. “Are you at all hungry?”
“You tell your uncle to stay home with you girls for the rest of the day,” Mr. Herze says, his eyes still stuck on Izzy. “Tell him Mr. Herze said so.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And if you two find yourselves in any more trouble, you let me know.”
Again, “Yes, sir.”
“Warren, will you want dinner? A change of clothes?”
“All right, then.” Mr. Herze takes each of them by the hand, gives a squeeze, drops Arie’s, still holds Izzy’s. “You two take care.”
Arie pulls Izzy by the arm. Mr. Herze’s hand drops away.
“Anything at all,” he says, reaching out to grab Izzy’s fingers but unable to reach them. “You call on me.”
“Thank you, Mr. Herze,” Izzy says, stumbling as Arie drags her toward the front door.
“We’ll tell Uncle Bill you were here,” Arie says, not sure why she says it or why she is suddenly happy Uncle Bill is much stronger and much bigger than Mr. Herze.
Grace leans against her kitchen counter, six slices of white bread laid out before her like playing cards, and wonders again if she made a mistake letting the twins go home to an empty house. This is usually the busiest part of Grace’s day. She likes to get her chores done before the lunch hour and save her afternoons to tidy the house and touch up her makeup before James comes home. Puttering, Mother always called it. Grace likes to leave her puttering to the afternoons. At this earlier hour, there would normally be laundry to hang out, groceries to put away, a supper to begin planning. But today, she forgot to start any laundry and didn’t bother with the market. Nearby, the stand mixer runs on low. Grace pours a stream of oil into the bowl and as the mixer churns, she begins to count to thirty. Her thoughts drift. She loses track and begins again. Give it thirty seconds, Mother always says.
Grace didn’t call James after Orin Schofield fired his rifle into their garage, but she knew someone would find him and send him home. It’s just as well. He promised to take Grace’s tuna salad back to the church so the men could have a quick sandwich for lunch. It’s one of those dishes Grace can always count on to turn out well. Warm air rushes into the kitchen when the back door swings open. James follows, nearly falling as he rushes across the threshold. Four long strides carry him to Grace, his footsteps clicking on the gray tile floor. He’s picked up a speck of gravel or a stone in the sole of his shoe.
James says nothing at first, but as Grace did with the girls, he cups her cheeks, looks her over from head to toe, smooths damp strands of hair from her face.
“You’re all right?”
She touches his square jaw. It’s rough because he didn’t bother to shave this morning.
“I’m fine,” she says, and rests one hand on the baby. “We’re fine.” She watches as oil blends with the eggs and lemon juice.