“Hey there,” Mr. Beersdorf shouts.
At the end of the aisle, Mr. Beersdorf appears. He stops under the pennants that now hang motionless. To the left of him stands the cardboard cutout, but from where she lies, facedown, Izzy can see only the boy’s brown paper backing and the wooden slats that hold him in place.
“What’s happening here?” Mr. Beersdorf says. “You there.” He points down at Izzy. “What’s your name? Do I know your parents?”
Izzy scrambles to her knees. Behind her, the little girl is crying and the mother is trying to pick her up.
“You’ll pay for that produce,” Mr. Beersdorf shouts, jabbing a finger at the woman struggling with her crying child.
On hands and knees, Izzy snatches up the can, jumps to her feet, darts between Mr. Beersdorf and the cardboard cowboy, and runs toward the door.
“Stop there,” Mr. Beersdorf shouts over the screaming little girl. “Bring back that can.”
At the front of the store, the colored man who waited while the other two walked into the shop pushes open the door and ushers Izzy outside with a one-handed sweeping gesture. “That’s twice I saved you, huh?” he says as she runs past. He smiles down on Izzy, his teeth bright and white against his warm, brown skin. He has soft, lazy eyes like Uncle Bill and stands with a strong, straight back. Izzy smiles, though she isn’t sure what the man means to say, and holding the tuna in one hand she runs out of the store and through the empty parking lot. Knowing Mr. Beersdorf won’t follow her because he’ll be too worried about all those Negroes, Izzy slows to a walk when she reaches the street, tosses the can into the air, and catches it. Tosses it and catches it.
“I’m guessing your aunt doesn’t know you’re out and about, does she? And I’m guessing you didn’t buy that can of tuna.”
Izzy wraps both hands around the small can, hiding it as best she can. Three men walk toward her. Two carry long sticks meant for poking through bushes. The men wear hats, white cotton work shirts rolled up at the sleeves, faded blue pants that have no crease, and black boots. They stand on either side of the third man. Izzy knows the third man. Just as she thought, Mr. Herze carries the clipboard.
The ladies have set up fewer tables at the church today than they did a few days ago. Fewer and fewer men are joining in the search. Some say they are troubled by taking charity from the men who work double shifts. Today is payday, the start of a new pay period. It’s time they get back to work. Others say now that a man has been arrested, there’s no need to continue looking. That Negro will talk soon enough, the men say. Give the police some time. That Negro’ll talk.
It had been nearly noon when Malina finally woke, and Mr. Herze had already left for the day. His cologne no longer lingered and the air in the hallway was cool and dry, no leftover steam from the hot water he would have run to bathe himself before leaving. The pills had worked. He never tried to wake her. But they also muddied Malina’s thoughts and caused her to sleep late. Once out of bed, she had slipped on the first wrinkle-resistant dress she came across in her closet, and on her way out of the house she fished her yellow rubber gloves from beneath the sink, and once through the back door she shook the cornstarch from them. Across the street and a few doors down, a moving truck was parked outside Betty Lawson’s house. Yes, it was a moving truck. That was Jerry Lawson holding open his front door as two Negro men carried a blue tweed sofa from the house. Soon enough, one of Malina’s troubles would be gone. Mr. Herze would never again sit at the Lawsons’ kitchen table and listen to a police officer call Malina a liar, because the Lawsons would no longer live on Alder Avenue.
At the bottom of the stairs leading into the church basement, Malina bids hello to Sara Washburn, coordinator for today’s luncheon. With a clipboard in hand, Sara checks off Malina’s name and makes note of the stuffed-pepper meatloaf Malina has brought and smiles because she has remembered to do exactly as Malina instructed. Sara’s brown hair flips up in tight curls that ride just above her shoulders and the plaid dress she wears is too heavy for such a warm day. Malina gives Sara a wink and a pat on the shoulder, not because Malina is fond of the woman, but because the relief of having seen the moving van outside the Lawsons’ house has lifted her spirits. She might even call herself giddy. Setting her casserole with the other homemade dishes, she trails a finger along the table and inspects what all the other ladies have brought. Card tables have been set up and covered with linens, place settings have been put out, and the coffee bubbles up at a small table near the back of the room. Behind the table stands Julia Wagner.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Malina says. “I rather thought you’d be home with the twins.”
Julia glances up from a sheet of limp paper she holds in her hands. Because of the small dark print and thin worn edges, it’s probably something cut from a newspaper. She smiles but says nothing.
“I see you brought your banana bread,” Malina says, drawing a cup of coffee from one of the percolators. “Mr. Herze does love it so. You should think about bringing it to the bake sale this year.”
A pale yellow scarf is tied over Julia’s hair, which has yet to see a brush today, and as is usually the case, her blouse is too snug through the chest. The strain has caused a gap to open up between two buttons-a gap Julia has tried to remedy with a safety pin.
“Pardon?” Julia says, folding the paper and setting it on the table. She looks about the room as if she’s forgotten where she is.
“The bake sale,” Malina says. “I should think your banana bread would prove quite popular.”
“No,” Julia says. “What did you say about the girls?”
“Nothing,” Malina says. “But I did see them out and about today before I left the house, or I should say I saw one of them. I guess I assumed you were home. I didn’t expect to find you here.”
“You saw the girls outside?”
Malina nods and tries not to stare at the pin woven into Julia’s blouse. Each time she inhales, that silver prong catches the overhead light and sparkles.
“Only one of them,” Malina says. “She was walking down the street. Not causing any trouble, though I do suspect they are the culprits who have trampled my flowers on occasion.”
“Would you mind the coffee?” Julia asks, slipping from behind the table. “I think I’d better run home.”
At the bottom of the stairs leading into the dining hall, one of the husbands appears, his hat in hand, fingering the brim as he stretches his neck to scan the room. “Doris,” he calls out, brushing aside the ladies who approach him. “Where’s my Doris?”
“Very well,” Malina says, taking Julia’s place behind the table while keeping watch over the commotion going on across the room. Not even this extra duty will dampen Malina’s mood. Julia has always been an odd sort of neighbor, and Malina’s found it difficult to converse with her ever since her baby died. It’s such a lot of sadness to contend with. “Don’t forget this.” Malina picks up the tattered, worn slip of paper and stretches across the table to hand it to Julia.
Julia takes the clipping between two fingers and opens it.
“Did you ever consider this?” she says, lifting the article and pressing it toward Malina for a closer look.
“What ever do you mean?”
The ladies continue to congregate near the stairwell. “I’m here.” It’s Doris Taylor’s voice, rising above the rest. “My goodness, I’m right here.”
“A place like this,” Julia says, paying the ladies no mind. “The Willows. Have you heard of it?”
Malina walks from behind the table, crosses her arms, and leans forward so she can see what Julia holds in her hands. “What on earth? I haven’t the faintest notion what this is. The twins, Julia. You’re supposed to be tending to the twins.”