“I’ll be leaving for the church shortly,” Malina says. “Can I run any errands for you? Maybe you need something for the little one.”
“What is it that you want, Malina?” Betty says.
“Very well,” Malina says, backing down the sidewalk in case Betty should take another swipe at the rugs. A few doors down, the twins still twirl their hoops. Every so often, one of them falls and rattles on the concrete. When next she gets a good look at those twins, she’ll check the bottom of their white sneakers for pink stains. “It’s your husband.”
“Yes.”
“I’d rather prefer he not drag me into his troubles.”
“And I’d rather prefer my husband not go to jail.” Betty lifts her broom overhead and smacks the next rug.
“Don’t be silly,” Malina says. “No one is going to jail. I’d simply prefer he not insist he saw me driving about after dark.”
Betty walks to the edge of her porch so her feet hang over the first stair. “Do you have any idea the trouble you have caused? Do you have any idea what people are saying?”
“I hardly think I’m to blame for your husband’s troubles.”
“Why won’t you tell the truth? You saw Jerry that night, standing right here. You saw him, even waved at him.”
“I can’t say something that isn’t true. It’s really quite important Jerry make clear to Mr. Herze that he was mistaken. You’re both mistaken. It’s quite important Jerry tell Mr. Herze I was not the one he saw on the street.”
Betty hugs the broom handle to her chest and angles her head off to one side. “You’re afraid, aren’t you?” she says, dropping the bristled end of the broom to the first stair and in one motion sweeping it clean. “You’re afraid of your own husband.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Malina says. “I’ve every reason to ask that Jerry stop spreading lies about me.”
“Go home, Malina,” Betty says, dropping her broom to the next stair.
Malina backs farther down the sidewalk. The clouds have thinned and in some spots, given way to clear sky. The sun breaks through and warms her face and arms. The bright light does her no justice. Her skin has thinned in recent years. It used to sparkle like the skin on those two girls. Almond-colored freckles sparkle on the girls’ smooth skin and their blue eyes shine. Malina has always wished for blue eyes. Hers are a rather ordinary brown. In her younger days, people often complimented her perfect skin. Like silk, they would sometimes say, or satin. Which is more lovely? She was careless in those early days. She knows better now. It was a silly lie. After so many years, she knows better. At the sound of a car engine, Malina whirls around, but it’s not Mr. Herze. Two houses down, those twins still twirl their hoops. One of them counts out loud and doesn’t stop until the hoop falls to her feet. When Malina turns back, Betty Lawson is leaning on the broom and slowly shaking her head.
“My husband might have a weak character,” Betty says, “but he’s never given me cause to fear him. Other people saw my Jerry that night, and they’ve been good enough to tell the truth. I guess it’s only right I warn you. The police said you lacked credibility. That’s what they said of your account. That means they know you were lying. That means your Warren knows too.”
“You just going to stand there?” the Negro woman with the rounded red neckline says to Grace. The others call her Sylvie. She has wide shoulders, almost like a man’s, and if she were to stand she’d be a full head taller than Grace. “Come. Sit.”
Clutching her handbag to her side, Grace tiptoes through the thin layer of mud left by the rain and slides onto the end of the nearest bench. She places her bag in her lap and crosses her hands on the tabletop, which is rough where long slivers of it have torn or rotted away. Sitting opposite Grace, the woman who wears the plunging red blouse picks at the soft wood and flicks bits of it onto the ground.
“Bet that keeps breaking open on you, doesn’t it?” The large woman stops picking at the wood, brushes her hands together, and points at Grace’s lip. The woman has painted tiny white crescents over the root of each fingernail. They glitter like rhinestones on the tips of her dark fingers.
Grace lifts a hand to cover her lip. Studying Grace’s face and pregnant stomach, the woman-Sylvie-leans back when Mrs. Nowack reappears with a plate and sets it in front of her. With her fork, Sylvie pokes at the hollowed-out pepper stuffed with ground beef and stares at Grace while Mrs. Nowack delivers three more plates.
The woman sitting next to Grace finally swings her feet around and tucks her legs under the table. Just as Grace thought they would, the small beads on the ends of the woman’s braids clatter like a chime when she moves. Mrs. Nowack calls her Lucille. She leans forward to get a look at Grace’s split lip but says nothing.
“Your man do it to you?” It’s Cassia, the one who brought Grace the towel. She bends over the carriage, peeks under the thin quilt. “Shhh, shhh, shhh,” she says, looking again at Grace. Thick black lashes frame the girl’s brown eyes.
“We bumped heads,” Grace says. “Mother and I.”
Cassia lowers the corner of the quilt but continues to rest one hand on the carriage’s handle. “I know a lip that’s been split by the back of a hand,” she says.
Lucille leans forward again, squints as if trying to get a better look, and then nods.
“It’s all right,” Sylvie says, laying aside her fork, tilting her face toward the sky, and stretching her broad shoulders. The rolls of her chest rise out of her rounded neckline. “Ain’t nothing we don’t already know about.”
Cassia slides her fingers off the carriage’s handle, reaches across the table and, with one hand, cups Grace’s chin. With the other, she touches the tender spot on Grace’s upper lip.
“Not so bad,” she says.
Trailing two fingers up the side of Grace’s face, Cassia brushes back Grace’s bangs as if inspecting her for hidden cuts and bruises. The tiny hands are like a child’s, frail and delicate, Grace barely able to feel them. Finding nothing, Cassia smooths Grace’s hair into place. Grace leans back until her chin slips from the tender hand.
“Yep,” Cassia says, lowering herself onto the bench. “Not so bad.” After another quick peek under the quilt, she settles into her seat and, with one hand, continues rocking the carriage.
“Why won’t you ladies come to the bakery anymore?” It’s Lucille, the one with the braids. Her eyes are dark brown, almost black.
“Pardon?” Grace glances overhead, thinking if it were to rain, she would have reason to excuse herself.
“You and the other ladies,” Sylvie says, smiling as if to make up for Lucille’s harsh tone. “Mrs. Nowack says you all won’t come anymore and she won’t have so much baking to do.”
“We’re frightened, I suppose,” Grace says.
“Because you all are afraid of being here when they pull that girl out of the river?” Lucille says. As she waits for an answer, she taps her fork on the edge of her plate. The muscles along her jawline pulse as if she’s grinding her teeth. “Will you all come back after they find her?”
“I don’t think I can answer that.”
“Maybe they’re afraid of ending up like Tyla,” Lucille says.
“Hush about that,” Sylvie says, wagging her finger in the same fashion Grace’s own mother did when Grace was a child. “No one said nothing about Tyla.” She nods in Cassia’s direction and presses a finger to her lips. “No one said nothing.”
“Don’t matter why they stopped coming,” Lucille says. “Still a pity for Mrs. Nowack.”
Across the table, Cassia nods along with Lucille and dips her fork into the baked pepper. At first she takes small bites, chewing each a good long time, but she must decide she likes it because she eats faster. Between bites, she grabs hold of the carriage’s handle, gives it a gentle shake, and makes that shhhing noise. The handle is speckled with rust and the black canopy is frayed at its edges. When Cassia seems content the baby is asleep, she settles into her seat, one hand in her lap, the other scooping out the last of the ground beef. Lucille and Sylvie begin to eat as well, and the table falls silent. As they eat, the women look at one another without turning their heads, but instead by flicking their eyes this way and that as if hoping Grace won’t notice. The silence continues to build, interrupted only by quiet chewing and the sound of forks tapping against the glossy, white plates.