Mr. Herze shoves the tool at Malina. “Is this true?”
“How can it be true if we don’t own such a hammer? They’re telling tales. I shouldn’t venture to guess why.”
The timid twin backs down the stairs.
“We have to give it back,” the mouthy twin says. “We took it and we’re sorry. It’s yours.” And she jumps from the porch, grabs the other one’s hand, and together they run across the lawn, leap Malina’s hedge of wilted snapdragons, and sprint across the street.
“I went looking for my hammer,” Mr. Herze says. “Wanted to assure those two this wasn’t mine.” He wraps his hand around the handle and taps the flat head in his palm. “Couldn’t find it.”
Malina tucks under her skirt and kneels to the clothes spilled across her porch. These must be Elizabeth Symanski’s things. So much lavender and pink. She did love her pastels, even though they washed her out. As Malina shoves the clothes back into the bags, she says, “I’m sure I don’t know anything about hammers and such.”
Shoving the last of the clothes into the bags, Malina gathers them, but before she can stand, Mr. Herze’s hand strikes her left cheek. She stumbles across the porch, falls into the banister, and the bags of clothes fly into the front yard. The railing knocks the wind out of her. Her diaphragm contracts like a fist opening and closing. She gasps for air, trying to fill her lungs, and presses both hands over her cheek. Beneath this cover, the sting fades to a burn. She sucks in one good breath and glances at the neighbors on either side.
“Was it you?” Mr. Herze says. Sweat trickles down the sides of his face and disappears into his jowls. “You’re best served to tell me now. Did you kill her?”
Malina drops her hands from her face. It’s the strangest of feelings, when a person has the wind knocked out of her. The body wanting so badly to draw in a breath and yet it can’t. Staring at Mr. Herze, this is how her body struggles yet again. Slowly, she shakes her head.
Mr. Herze will go into the kitchen now and mix his own drink while he waits for the television set to warm up. This used to happen more often. When Malina was younger, she was careless and would lie without thinking. Maybe she would forget to cook the spareribs in the refrigerator and when they spoiled she would throw them out and lie about the smell coming from the garbage can. With age, she learned to be more careful, to not give herself reason to lie. Pride. That’s what made her lie about the driving and the hammer. No woman wants the others to see her driveway standing empty long after her husband should be home.
“This will not end well,” Mr. Herze says. He also looks up and down Alder Avenue as if he, too, is concerned about the neighbors, then walks inside and slams the door.
Day 8
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
All of the ladies were out and about this morning after spending a quiet day yesterday to reflect on the loss of Elizabeth and the state of their own neighborhood. Because most of them traveled to Willingham for their regular shopping trip, news will have spread and everyone will know about Grace and Orin and the colored men. They will have watched Grace and the men from behind the cover of heavy drapes, but they won’t have heard enough. They’ll want to know more but won’t dare ask. Malina is one to ask. No longer able to ignore Malina’s shouts, Grace finally stops on the sidewalk.
“I’m running late,” Grace says, tugging at her white gloves as she walks toward Malina. Julia’s house is directly across the street. Another morning has passed with no phone call or bus ride. Maybe on her way home, Grace will be able to stop in for a visit. She’ll feel better after spending some time on Willingham, stronger again. Mrs. Nowack and the women will help her make pierogi and they won’t ask about the colored men or wonder what terrible things Grace has done. They’ll mix up dough, roll it, boil it, and send Grace home with a box full of pierogi. It’ll be easier to breathe as soon as she gets to Willingham, and when she returns, she’ll stop to see Julia. “I’m afraid I haven’t time to visit.”
“I didn’t realize how much mending there was to do with those clothes I took from your garage,” Malina says.
Inside her own garage, Malina is bent over one of the several boxes and bags that cover the floor. Old clothes, sheets, and towels spill out of each one. She lifts a delicate yellow blouse, holds it up by the shoulders, shakes it, and folds it over her arm.
“I’m afraid I didn’t realize either.” Grace checks her watch. The bus will be along shortly. She resists glancing back at Julia’s house. James said Grace should pop in for a visit because Julia was having a tough time of it. The bus will be along shortly and Grace can’t miss it. She’ll have to visit Julia later. “If you’ll point out which bag,” she says. “I’ll get right to it.”
Malina scans the garage floor. Beyond her, Warren Herze’s tools hang from a pegboard. More and more of the neighborhood men have taken up the same idea, all of them so worried about their tools. Folks can’t be trusted anymore, some of them say. Not like it used to be. Got to keep track as best we can. All the tools fit perfectly, as if they are part of a child’s puzzle. The hammer is the one missing piece.
“There,” Malina says. “Right near your feet. That whole bag needs to be mended. I hate to ask it of you. Perhaps one of the other ladies can help.”
“I’ll get busy on them today.”
There is a pause while Malina digs into another bag and Grace braces for the questions. What ever were you doing talking with a Negro, and why would you have Orin shoot the man? What is it that you know, Grace Richardson, that the rest of us don’t? With Elizabeth lying in a box, won’t you tell us what you know?
“You’re a dear,” Malina says, and continues her sorting and folding.
The pause ends. No questions. Not even a mention of Elizabeth or her funeral or what could be done for poor Mr. Symanski.
“I’ll get some help with these,” Grace says, groaning as she bends to lift the brown bag.
“Thank you ever so much,” Malina says, staring at the pegboard. “Feel free to drop them at the thrift store when you’re finished.”
Julia should get up. Every other morning, she’s out of bed by six thirty. Breakfast for Bill, dishes, and then breakfast for the twins. They usually want pancakes. But Bill is gone, and the girls, even if they are awake, make no noise. They don’t need her yet, but before the day is over, they will. Soon enough, if not already, everyone will know Bill is gone. It’s as if Maryanne has died a second time. As if Julia knowing the truth brought back her baby and killed her again. As if Julia knowing is as bad as what Bill did. The pain of it sits on her chest, pressing down so she struggles for every breath. Her legs are heavy. Her arms ache.
She must have dozed off, because when she wakes again, the room is hot. Swinging both legs off the edge of the bed, she rests her feet on the floor and pushes herself into a sitting position. At first she welcomes the stillness. Near the door, her packed suitcase waits for her. She had planned to leave the girls with Bill, but that was before. Now that he is gone, they can come with her. They’ll make a vacation of it. The girls need some time away. All this acting out can be cured with a little extra time spent together. They’ll ride on the train, stay in a nice hotel, eat supper at a fine restaurant. The nurses and doctors at the Willows will see how good Julia is to the girls, how much they love one another, and they’ll give her a baby even though she has no husband. Even though Elizabeth Symanski will never come home. Even though Julia’s own baby died.