“You and Warren, you’ve never had children. You must have considered it. Adoption. Did you ever consider adoption?”
“I am quite sure that is none of your business, Julia Wagner.”
“Let us pass.” It’s Doris’s husband. “Step away, all of you. Let us pass.”
All around the room, the ladies begin scurrying about, collecting their bags and wraps. Some of them fuss with their casseroles and cover them with foil while others gather the plates, saucers, and flatware and stack them on the back credenza. Still others rip linens from the tables and stuff them in cloth laundry bags.
“How dare you broach such a personal question?” Malina says. “You should concern yourself with those girls and stop all this foolishness.”
“You think I don’t concern myself with the girls?” Julia says.
Julia’s perfume, something cheap and sweet, snags in Malina’s throat. She coughs into her fist. Julia throws back her shoulders, lifts her chin, and the gap in her blouse widens, straining the safety pin’s thin-coiled wire.
“I think adoption is a private thing not to be discussed in this manner, and you should concern yourself with the two children you already have.” Malina clears her throat as much to give herself time to think as to soothe the irritation from Julia’s perfume. “I think maybe you’re not well. It’s no wonder. What with all the stress of Elizabeth disappearing, I can’t imagine the guilt you’re feeling. I only meant to suggest you bring your banana bread to the sale. You’re such a fine cook. Nothing more. Really, nothing more.”
“Ladies, ladies, you two hurry along.” It’s Sara Washburn, calling out from across the room. When Julia and Malina make no move to leave, Sara walks toward them, a white cotton sweater slung over one arm and both hands wrapped around her clipboard. “Leave these things,” she says. “Switch off that coffee and go home.”
“You think I can’t care for Izzy and Arie?” Julia says, ignoring Sara.
“I said no such thing.” Malina pauses, reaches out to touch Julia’s arm.
Julia jerks away, nearly stumbling. “It’s what you all think, isn’t it? That I’m unfit.”
“Ladies,” Sara says, clutching the clipboard to her chest as if to protect herself. “Leave this to another time. I’d like to lock up.”
“Please, Julia. I said nothing about you being unfit. For goodness sake, what has gotten into you? The girls stay only a few weeks. How much trouble could they or you possibly get into? They really are of no concern to me.”
“Ladies, let’s move along,” Sara says.
“And what if they were to stay? Would you worry then? Am I only fit to care for them a few weeks at a time?”
“Is that true?” Malina says, her giddy mood slipping away. Looking from Sara Washburn in her bold plaid dress to Julia, who is bursting through her white cotton blouse, Malina tries to draw in another deep breath to clear her head, but the air is too heavy with Julia’s perfume. “They’ll stay on? The girls will stay?”
“Ladies,” Sara shouts.
Julia drops the tattered sheet of paper on the table. Her round, full chest rises and falls. More of her red hair has pulled loose of the scarf that held it from her face, and wiry strands stick out from her head. Both she and Malina turn to Sara.
“It’s Elizabeth,” Sara says, her shoulders sinking. “They’ve found her. They’ve found our Elizabeth. Please, it’s time to go home.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Grace agrees with Mrs. Nowack when she suggests it might be best that Grace go straight home, and after the fifth police car has raced past the bakery and turned toward the river, she boards the bus that will carry her back to Alder Avenue. But rather than stopping at her own house, she walks directly to Mr. Symanski’s, opens the iron gate, climbs the three stairs leading onto his porch, and knocks lightly. The door opens. Mr. Symanski wears a wrinkled shirt and a tie that falls too short. His pants hang loose on his waist and bag at his ankles. A pair of men’s shoes cut from soft kidskin leather sit to the side of the door. The tip of his big toe pokes through a small hole in his right sock.
“I thought to check on you,” Grace says. “I was down on Willingham…”
She lets her words trail off into silence, afraid to mention the many police cars and blaring sirens. Tugging off her white gloves one finger at a time, she checks the street for any sign of an officer who might be coming to deliver bad news.
Mr. Symanski blinks twice and squints again, as if not certain who Grace is, and then he smiles. “Come in,” he says. “Before the heat is getting you.”
Outside Mr. Symanski’s, tufts of crabgrass have grown up through the cracks in the sidewalk. The yard has become shabby in the short time since Elizabeth disappeared. It must have started when Ewa died, the slow, steady falling apart, but Grace hadn’t noticed until now.
In the living room, Grace tucks her gloves into her handbag. The air is heavy and stale, making it difficult to breathe. So often in the days since Elizabeth disappeared, it’s been difficult for Grace to breathe.
“The baby is well?” Mr. Symanski says.
Grace nods and pushes aside the heavy drapes in the front room. Light spills into the house, and the dust in the air sparkles. Across the street, the Filmore Apartments are quiet. They’re always quiet. In the evenings, when the people come home from work, they must park their cars and disappear inside straightaway. Everyone says some of the families living there are Negroes, but Grace has never seen them coming or going through the glass doors. She’s only seen the men who roam the alley and now the street. The one who came for her hasn’t been among them since the night of the attack. Grace excuses herself and, in the kitchen, pulls a bottle of diluted vinegar from under the sink, grabs a few pages from yesterday’s newspaper, and walks back to the living room.
“The police came to see you?” Mr. Symanski says.
“They did.” She sets aside the bottle so she can use both hands to wad up the newspaper.
A half dozen times since the officers questioned James and Grace, their patrol car has rolled down Alder Avenue. Each time, the car drove slowly as it crept past her house, giving her a chance to rush outside and admit to them she lied. They could find Elizabeth if only Grace would tell the truth.
“Yesterday,” she says. “They came yesterday.”
Sprinkling the diluted vinegar on the crumpled ball of newspaper, Grace rubs small circles on the living room’s cloudy window.
“They are asking you more questions?” Mr. Symanski says.
Another deep breath so her voice won’t quiver.
“I wish I could have told them something,” she says, and rubs her nose.
Ewa’s vinegar water is stronger than the mixture Grace has at home. But stronger is better. The glass glistens and squeals as Grace scrubs.
“I wish I could have told them something that would help. But they arrested a man. Does it give you any peace to know that?”
Maybe there is some comfort in knowing. Maybe not knowing is the thing that tortures a father, keeps him up at night, turns his hair to straw, makes his shoulders cave and his spine bow. The street must surely be safer with one of them arrested. This must bring some peace.
Mr. Symanski sits on the sofa. He used to sit in the brown recliner pushed against the wall, and Ewa would sit next to him in her chair. With his hands in his lap, he smiles at the bright window.
“They have no one,” he says.
“But they arrested a man.”
“They are telling me it was unrelated,” Mr. Symanski says. “I don’t understand unrelated. I am thinking Elizabeth doesn’t matter as much as another might.”
“I don’t understand, either,” Grace says. “They let him go? How can they do that?”
Mr. Symanski shakes his head. “They say they can be holding a man only so long. That is all they are telling me.”