“Would you tell Izzy to get a move on?” Aunt Julia says, walking through the door and toward the kitchen, a sweet, perfumed smell following her inside. “We’re going to be late if that child doesn’t get going.”
Izzy continues to stare at the floor and tries not to smile. “Aunt Julia,” she says, pitching her voice the slightest bit higher so she’ll sound like Arie. “Could Izzy and I stay home today?”
Aunt Julia stops and crosses her arms over her chest. She thinks Izzy is Arie because Izzy has brushed her hair with one hundred strokes, scrubbed her face until it burned, and wears a tucked-in blouse that isn’t wrinkled.
“I promise to make Izzy behave,” Izzy says. “But I’d rather not go to the church. It scares me to be there.”
“What do you mean?” Aunt Julia runs a hand over Izzy’s glossy hair, thinking it’s Arie’s glossy hair.
“It makes me think about Elizabeth all the time,” Izzy says, “and that scares me.”
“I don’t know,” Aunt Julia says, looking overhead to where Arie is in the bathroom, brushing her hair and scrubbing her face. “It’s not that I worry so much about you, but Izzy isn’t one to mind me these days.”
“I’ll make her listen,” Izzy says. “I promise I won’t let Izzy out of my sight.”
Once Aunt Julia’s red taillights have disappeared around the corner at Alder and Woodward and while the water still runs in the upstairs bathroom, Izzy yanks at her crisp white cotton blouse so it hangs loose at her waist, pulls off her headband, and runs out the back door, across the yard, and into the alley. She would have brought Arie, but she is all of a sudden afraid of the alley and wouldn’t have approved anyway. Izzy runs until she reaches the Turners’ house, and once there, she squats behind the overgrown bushes Mr. Turner never trims. From this end of the block, Izzy can see the top floor of Aunt Julia’s house. She squints and maybe sees Arie standing in their bedroom window. Just in case, she gives Arie a big wave so she’ll know everything is all right. Then Izzy drops back behind the bush and watches for approaching cars.
After waiting for a good long time and hearing and seeing nothing, Izzy peeks out from behind the bush. Across the intersection, just outside Mr. Symanski’s house, a group of three men huddles around a clipboard. Two of the men carry walking sticks, the third holds the clipboard. After talking for a few minutes, the three men walk toward the Filmore and disappear around back, where they must be heading down into the poplar trees. They’ll poke at the shrubs and mushy piles of leaves back there in hopes one of them will finally poke Elizabeth. When Izzy is sure the men are gone, she jumps up from behind Mr. Turner’s shaggy bushes, gives one last wave in case Arie can see her, and runs toward Beersdorf’s Grocery.
A small bell overhead rings when Grace pushes open the bakery door. As it was yesterday, the air inside the small shop is thick and warm. The glass cabinets and the wire shelves are still empty. It’s payday on Willingham Avenue, usually the busiest day of the week, but today, all the other shops have closed. Soft voices drift out of the back room. That’s Cassia’s voice, the young mother with the black carriage, light and sweet, calling for more flour. And Sylvie, the largest of the women Grace met yesterday, telling Cassia no more, you’ll ruin the dough. Setting her handbag on Mrs. Nowack’s counter, Grace pulls off her gloves one finger at a time.
Outside the shop, two police cars drive by, stop at the intersection of Willingham and Chamberlin, and turn left. They are probably headed to the river, where they’ll search for Elizabeth. Grace draws in a deep breath. It’s easier to breathe here on Willingham. Everything is easier here on Willingham. The baby doesn’t ride quite as low and heavy and the ache in her tailbone is gone. This is what a good night’s sleep does for a person. This is what Orin Schofield, sitting watch in the alley, a rifle resting in his lap, has done for Grace.
“You are coming just in time,” Mrs. Nowack says, walking from behind the black curtain. Her gray skirt brushes the floor and her small black loafers peek out from under the hem of her skirt. Her spongy, wide feet spill over the tops of her shoes. From under the counter, she pulls four large silver trays. “Hurry before they are rolling out the dough. We have many hands today and will be finishing in no time. You are wanting to learn, yes?”
Behind Mrs. Nowack, near the register, the baby carriage Grace saw the day before is pushed against the wall. It’s covered with the same tattered yellow quilt.
“They’ll keep nicely in the freezer?” Grace whispers as if there were a baby sleeping in the carriage. “The bake sale has been postponed, you know.” She turns at the sound of another engine idling outside the shop. Somewhere nearby, a car carrier rolls toward the docks, its heavy load shaking the floor beneath Grace’s feet. Soon enough, the carrier, or one much like it, will return north, empty of its load. Its loose chains and weathered straps will rattle as it passes through the streets.
“They will be keeping in the freezer as long as you need,” Mrs. Nowack says, also looking out the store’s front window.
That’s Julia’s car sitting at the stop sign, and that’s Julia sitting behind the wheel, unmistakable with her tangle of red hair. She stares straight ahead at the warehouse, looking almost as if she’s lost.
On her way to catch the afternoon bus to Willingham, Grace had stopped at Julia’s for coffee and a visit. Already Grace was feeling guilty for avoiding Julia. Grace had ignored a ringing phone that she knew was Julia and had hidden from a few knocks on her back door. A short visit would set things right.
Even from the front porch, Grace could smell the sweetness of ripened bananas-Julia’s homemade banana bread.
“I’m making pierogi today,” Grace had said, taking a seat at Julia’s kitchen table and stirring a sugar cube into her coffee. “Mrs. Nowack is going to help me.”
Standing at her stove, Julia poured a cup of milk into a small saucepan, then added a half stick of butter and a packed cup of brown sugar. Once her butter melted, she would add powdered sugar, beat it until it was smooth, and lastly drizzle the icing over her banana bread. Only glancing at Grace, Julia turned up the heat on her burner and beat the mixture with a wire whisk. Her lids drooped and her eyes were red as if she’d been crying, not recently, but during the night, perhaps all night. And her red hair, though never quite restrained, hung over her shoulders in loose, matted strands. It was the same look Julia had had in the weeks and months after Maryanne died.
“And how does that figure with James? I’m sure he can’t be happy about it, intent as he is on keeping you in that house.”
The sounds of metal scraping against wood floated into the kitchen through an open window. In the backyard, the twins were scraping loose paint off the garage. When the sounds fell silent for more than a moment, Julia leaned toward the open window and shouted, “There’s still meat on that bone.”
“I’m not telling him, and neither are you,” Grace said, sipping her coffee and shaking off Julia’s offer of a cigarette.
Before putting the milk back in the refrigerator, Julia poured herself a glass and offered one to Grace. It was Wednesday-diet day for Julia. Monday, Wednesday, Friday… one spoonful of the Swedish Milk Diet whisked into a glass of milk four times a day.
“Maybe you should eat something of a bit more substance,” Grace said.
Over the stove, a small timer pinged. Julia drank the milk, shook her head at the gritty texture she often complained about, and pulled two loaves of banana bread from the oven. She shook the oven mitts from her hands, arched her back, and cocked one hip to the side. “Girl’s got to keep her figure.” She bounced that hip and tried to laugh as she shook her large chest in Grace’s direction. Normally, Grace would blush and swat a hand at Julia, maybe tell her to put those things away, but today, before Grace could do either, Julia dropped her hip back where it belonged and let her shoulders sag.