CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
After Izzy gives one last wave in case Arie can see her from the bedroom window, she runs out of the alley and onto Alder Avenue. When she sees a second group of searchers, she squats behind another bush. One block later, she spots a third group and hides on the far side of an elm that hasn’t been chopped down yet. Elms used to grow along both sides of Alder Avenue. The trees formed an arch in summer when their leaves were thick, and in the winter, their bare branches were like claws trapping the houses below. Most of the elms are gone now, from Alder and all the other streets too.
While hiding from the most recent set of searchers and watching as the three men walk up to a door, tap lightly, and step back to wait for the lady of the house to appear, it occurs to Izzy she recognizes none of them, and if she doesn’t recognize them, they won’t recognize her. Even if they do catch sight of her and wonder why she is running about a neighborhood no one considers safe anymore, they won’t know to tell Aunt Julia because they won’t know where Izzy belongs. She runs the rest of the way without worrying about who might see her until she spots Mr. Herze’s giant blue sedan on the corner just past Beersdorf’s Grocery. The car’s fins run half its length and the chrome front end glitters where it catches the sun-definitely Mr. Herze’s car.
The fans hit Izzy full in the face when she pulls open Beersdorf’s heavy door. The small store smells of sour milk and bleach. Behind the front counter, Mr. Beersdorf stands, one hand resting on his register, the other on his large belly. When the girls used to shop here with Aunt Julia-before the neighborhood turned like a bad banana-Mr. Beersdorf’s apron was crisp and white and his belly was even bigger. Now the apron is gray and his belly has deflated because Mrs. Beersdorf died and he doesn’t have anyone to do his cooking and cleaning anymore. He flicks his eyes in Izzy’s direction but quickly turns his attention back to the large Negro woman standing at the display cases that run along the far side of the store. The plump woman wears a pink-and-white calico dress belted at her thick waist. With one hand, she holds a young girl by the wrist and is picking through Mr. Beersdorf’s tomatoes with the other. Izzy scans the rest of the shop. No sign of Mr. Herze. He must be among those searching the neighborhood, probably one of the men who carries a clipboard.
“Don’t you bruise my wares,” Mr. Beersdorf calls out.
As if to get Mr. Beersdorf’s goat, something Grandma likes to say, the woman is taking her own sweet time picking through every single tomato. The woman pays no mind to Mr. Beersdorf and continues picking and sorting. While Mr. Beersdorf is busy frowning at the woman, Izzy makes her way to the far side of the shop, her sneakers sliding easily across the black-and-gray checkered floor. She walks with a straight back and lets her arms hang naturally at her sides. The trick is to move with a normal stride and not glance about to see who’s watching. Behind her, where the tall windows let in the only light, the shop’s door opens. A blast of warm air rushes inside, blowing strands of Izzy’s red hair across her face. That same blast causes Mr. Beersdorf to stand to his full height and stick out his belly. Izzy turns to see what has caused Mr. Beersdorf to double in size.
Three colored men walk into the shop. One of them leans against the doorframe while the other two walk inside. One of the men is much taller and wider than the others and a tuft of hair grows from his chin. As the two men stroll past Mr. Beersdorf, paying him no attention, Izzy continues across the store, back straight, arms loose, no glancing about.
At the end of aisle one, red and green pennants hang overhead, their narrow tips fluttering from the gust of air the men let in, and a large cardboard cutout of a boy wearing a cowboy hat points toward a bin of canned peas and corn. His cheeks and the end of his round nose are red as if he’s had too much sun, and a blue kerchief is tied around his cardboard neck. The same cardboard boy stood over that bin when Izzy and Arie used to come to the store with Aunt Julia. They were younger then and Mrs. Beersdorf would say the cowboy was glad to see the girls and that he had been waiting all year for them to return. Izzy dashes past the display, fearing the boy is watching her and knows exactly what she’s up to.
Izzy tried to find a can of tuna in Aunt Julia’s cupboards, even mentioned one afternoon that some tuna sure would taste good. Aunt Julia said she had used up the last of it for the men down at the church and she’d put more on her shopping list, but after two trips to Willingham, Aunt Julia still hadn’t brought any home. There was only one way Izzy was going to get tuna.
She first spotted the cans the last time she and Arie were at Beersdorf’s, shortly before Izzy slipped the stolen pop under her shirt. If they were going to ever find their cat, tuna would be the perfect bait, and finding Patches is about the only way Izzy can think of to get Arie feeling better. For months, Arie worried and fussed about that dog the Russians shot up into space. She would stare into a black sky, hoping she might see that spaceship with the dog inside, as if her seeing it would have meant that dog was safe. About the time Arie stopped looking for that dog, their cat disappeared and then Arie started being afraid of the alley and just about everything else, it seemed. If it’s not one thing with Arie, it’s another.
Keeping her head down, Izzy passes behind the little girl and the woman sorting through the tomatoes, continues to the far end of the aisle, and squats to the lowest shelf. Checking both ways to make sure Mr. Beersdorf hasn’t appeared, she palms a can of tuna and tucks it into her elastic waistband. Behind her, the little girl lets out a squeal.
“Hush up,” the girl’s mother says, rolling another tomato from side to side as she inspects it. “Mind yourself.”
Izzy twists up her face the same way Arie does when she’s angry and points it at the girl, who promptly wraps both arms around her mother’s wide legs and hides her face in her mother’s thighs. With the girl no longer watching, Izzy stands slowly so the tuna won’t break free of her waistband. Half a dozen long strides will take her to the end of the aisle and back to the front of the store. When Izzy reaches her full height, the can tucked securely in place, the little Negro girl peeks out from behind her mother’s thighs. Izzy holds a finger to her lips. The little girl lets go of her mother’s legs, jumps into the center of the aisle, and shapes her face into the same scowl Izzy made. Two pigtails stick out from the girl’s head like fuzzy black handles. She jumps up and down and tugs at her mother’s blouse. Looking first at Izzy and then down at her daughter, the mother sets aside her tomato and reaches out to scoop up the girl, but she bounces out of reach and begins flapping her arms and pointing at Izzy.
“Stealer, stealer,” the girl chants. “Stealer, stealer.”
The mother fends off the small flailing arms and manages to wrap one hand around the girl’s shoulder. In the wake of the flapping and floundering, a few tomatoes tumble out of the display case. Izzy dashes toward the cardboard cowboy at the end of the aisle. The girl squeals and yanks away from her mother. As the woman lunges for her daughter, managing only to grab the girl’s small wrist, her foot lands in the center of a fallen tomato. The woman slips, losing her grip on the girl, and the girl flies across the aisle and into Izzy’s path.
Throwing out both hands like she does when she flies over her bike’s handlebars, Izzy sails past the little girl and falls face-first toward the checkered floor. The can of tuna breaks loose of her elastic waistband, drops out the leg of her shorts, bounces up, and hits the little girl in the head. The can continues to bounce across the black-and-gray tile and comes to rest a few feet beyond Izzy’s reach.