In the kitchen, Julia scrambles eggs instead of frying pancakes, but then she notices the time. It’s past noon, too late really for breakfast. She listens for the girls in their room overhead. She waits for footsteps pounding down the hallway or the sound of one of them bouncing off her mattress, the springs creaking under her weight. Nothing. She leans over the sink so she can see into the backyard. During this time of day, they like to sit in the shade thrown by Bill’s shed. Using white sticks of chalk, they draw on the concrete slab there. Sometimes tic-tac-toe boxes, other times line figures. The slab is empty and the latest drawings have been worn away to a few white slashes. At the bottom of the stairs, she shouts overhead, “Izzy, Arie, come on down.”
She waits but hears nothing.
The girls need to bathe so their hair will have time to dry before they leave for the station. There must be several trains to choose from. The newspaper article said every line in the country leads straight into the heart of Kansas City. They probably leave at all hours. She slides the eggs to a cool burner, sits, and flips through the phonebook, not entirely certain what she is searching for.
It’s nearly one o’clock when she thinks of the girls again. Most of the year, she is alone in the house while Bill is off to work. She is accustomed to the quiet, to the creak of the fan, the hum of the refrigerator when it clicks on. She forgets sometimes that it should be otherwise when the girls are visiting. She looks out the back window again and then out the front door. So she can get a better view, she walks to the end of the driveway, the bright sunlight making her squint. She calls for the girls up and down the street. No sign of them. Back inside, she climbs the stairs and opens their bedroom door.
The walls are white because the girls couldn’t agree on a color two years ago when Bill painted it. And when Julia bought each a new bedspread for her bed, they still couldn’t agree. It was blue popcorn chenille for Izzy and yellow for Arie. Arie makes her bed every morning without being asked. She tucks her hospital corners, straightens her bedspread, and fluffs her pillow. Izzy is careless with her bed, leaving the wrinkled sheets and the bedspread to hang unevenly. Julia can’t bear to see one half of the room tidy and the other disheveled, so she always fixes Izzy’s bed. Arie should complain, has a right to, but she never does. Some days, Arie tries to do the work for her sister, but Julia won’t allow it. Izzy might break the rules. Arie never does.
This morning, this afternoon, like always, Arie’s yellow bedspread lies smoothly across her bed and her pillow is centered on the headboard. Izzy’s should be untidy. Her spread should be crumpled, her pillow flat where she slept on it. But Izzy’s bed is as well made as Arie’s. It looks like it did yesterday after Julia fixed it. She had scolded the girls for stealing from Mr. Symanski. She had told them their promises meant nothing. Izzy’s bed looks as if it hasn’t been slept in and the rosary that usually hangs from Arie’s headboard is gone.
Stumbling backward, Julia grabs for the doorknob to steady herself. They were here last night. After Julia made a mess of the kitchen. After James came. No, that was Wednesday. They were home Wednesday. And then Thursday. Bill and she argued that morning. She told him to keep his voice down. The girls were sleeping. Bill trapped Julia against the wall and she ordered him to go. And then the stolen tuna and the hammer and Elizabeth’s belt. That was last night. Did she fix them supper? Surely she fed them. But what did she prepare? And didn’t she see them to bed before falling asleep herself?
She runs down the stairs and into the kitchen. Food overflows the trash can. The sour smell spills out into the living room and the foyer. There are only a few dirty dishes in the sink and dried-out strips of crust peeled from bread and slivers of SPAM-the girls’ favorite. Sandwiches they made for themselves.
Back in the foyer, Julia fumbles through her address book until she finds the number, dials, and waits. She had not asked where Bill was going when he left, but he had no choice other than his brother’s house. Catherine answers. No, Bill isn’t here. No, she doesn’t know where he is, at work most likely, and yes, she’ll pass on the message when she hears from him. Call back as soon as there’s news. Julia hangs up the phone. The house is empty. Like Elizabeth Symanski, the twins are gone.
Malina stands in her garage, surrounded by the donations she has gathered from the ladies. She really should have done a better job sorting and delivering them as they arrived on her doorstep. Across the street, Julia Wagner walks out of her house, and from the end of her driveway, she shouts for those twins. She must be calling them home to lunch. Malina tosses aside the gentleman’s shirt she had been folding and steps out of the garage into the sunlight.
Julia disappears inside and the street is quiet for a short while. She reappears, this time stumbling out the front door and down the drive. Her red hair hangs in her face and she wears a white cotton gown-her nightclothes. She begins to shout at the girls to come home. Over and over, she calls for them, her words stretching out to make room for her accent. Most days, Julia stands on her front porch and shouts at those girls as if calling home a dog. But something is different about her voice today. It’s strained, like she is nearly out of breath, and it’s pitched a bit higher, each word a bit rounder. That’s a scream. Yes, a person would call that a scream. Watching until Julia has disappeared back into her house, Malina runs inside, grabs her driving gloves and the car keys, and throws open the front door.
Slowing the car as she reaches the intersection of Woodward and Willingham, Malina turns right and parks in front of Wilson’s Cleaners. The street is empty because it’s past lunchtime. All of the ladies have come and gone. In a few weeks, at this very hour on a Saturday afternoon, the street will fill with folding tables and chairs. People from all over the city will come to buy homemade baked goods. They will have only Malina to thank for it. How many hours has she spent planning where each table will sit, following up to make certain every lady has done her baking, even brewing and serving the fresh coffee herself?
Once past Wilson’s Cleaners, Malina crosses Willingham and walks toward the factory. The men are back to work and the lot is full, but from the far side of the street, she’ll be able to see through all the cars, and among them, she’ll find Mr. Herze’s. It will be there. She’s certain of it. After those twins left the house yesterday, Malina had gathered up the clothing scattered across her lawn and followed Mr. Herze into the house. She promised him she had seen nothing, done nothing. He pushed her away, pulled on his hat, and left without another word. All night, he was gone, never came home to breakfast, and even when Malina left the house at well past noon, he had not yet come home. Surely he’s not the reason Julia stood at the end of her driveway, screaming and wearing her nightclothes.
Malina hasn’t been to Nowack’s Bakery in several days. None of the ladies are shopping there anymore because she won’t close on payday. It’s odd, then, that the door stands open and the strong smell of sautéed onions seeps outside. With no customers, who would Mrs. Nowack be baking for? The fans are running, too. Another sign that Mrs. Nowack is baking. Malina intended to walk past without even glancing at the shop. She intended to slip around the corner and from there, watch the parking lot. She certainly never intended to go inside the bakery, but that carriage stood in the center of the store, where a person walking past couldn’t help but see it.
She walks up the stairs that lead to the door and crosses inside. A small bell chimes. Straight ahead, the carriage’s black canopy is raised, and a yellow quilt lies across the bassinet. The canopy’s frame is twisted and the handle rusted. She moves closer, first sliding one foot across a white square tile and then another across a black tile.