“Check every garage,” Grace says, and walks past James onto the street.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
At the sound of a car door slamming, the officer with dark curly hair stands from his chair at the kitchen table and walks into the entry. Julia remains seated, her hands flat on the red tabletop. She leans back and fingers a small chip in the Formica. This is the spot where Izzy usually sits. Grace must have already cleaned the table because its chrome edging shines, no fingerprints or water spots. Julia is never able to get such a shine when she cleans. It’s the vinegar water Grace uses. Much stronger than Julia’s.
The slamming car door is followed by footsteps on the porch. It’ll be an officer or another man from the neighborhood asking for directions on where to search. Julia doesn’t bother to check who it might be. At the kitchen sink, Grace wrings out a dishrag. She hasn’t spoken since she arrived but promptly set about sweeping and mopping and scrubbing every surface with her strong vinegar water. Just as it was when Maryanne died. Grace is the one strong enough to tackle the inside of Julia’s house.
“They told me it happens sometimes,” Julia says.
Grace leans over the counter and continues to scrub the stains in the bottom of the sink, stains that have been there for years, stains Grace will get out that Julia never could.
“When Maryanne died, that’s what the doctor said. Did I ever tell you?”
Pushing off the counter, Grace takes a clean towel from the drawer to her left and dries her hands. Her blond hair is swept back and held off her face by a white band. It’s pure, lovely.
“Never seemed right to me. A baby dying for no good reason at all. Does that figure right to you?”
“No,” Grace says. “No, it never did.”
Julia should care this will upset Grace, make her worry after her own baby’s safety, but she doesn’t. She can’t.
“He killed her.”
A few feet shuffle, a reminder there are others in the room.
“Bill,” Julia says. “That’s why he’s gone. He killed Maryanne, and he’s seeing that I suffer for it. He’s seeing to it I never have another baby.”
Grace looks at someone beyond Julia’s shoulder, but she doesn’t care anymore what people know.
“Bill wouldn’t,” Grace says. “He’d never do such a thing.”
“He couldn’t stand the crying. That’s what he said. Couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, couldn’t work. Couldn’t be bothered with her crying.”
“Did he tell you this, ma’am?”
The voice comes from behind her. It’s the officer with the dark curls, the same one who couldn’t understand why Julia didn’t remember when the girls disappeared.
“I kissed James,” Julia says. The lie is like the crack of a whip in the quiet room. “There.” She points to the entry. “I kissed him right there, and I’m not one bit sorry for it.”
Grace glances at the officer as if he can explain. He shakes his head.
“Pardon?” Grace says.
“There,” Julia says. “In the entry. Because he came and you didn’t.”
The officer approaches the table, where he stands over Julia.
“Everything is pitch-perfect for you, isn’t it?” Julia says, staring at Grace and ignoring the officer.
“Ma’am, who is Maryanne?”
“You have your fine husband, and soon, a baby of your own,” Julia says. “Your house. Your friends. People think highly of you and James. They don’t even realize Elizabeth was your fault too. Your fault as much as mine.” Julia pauses, inhales, smelling the soap Grace squeezed into the bucket of water she used to mop up the food Julia threw across the room. “And now the twins are gone just like Elizabeth. No one will blame you for them, either. Only me.”
“Ma’am, do you believe your husband has killed someone?”
“It won’t always be this way, Grace,” Julia says. “Your baby could die too.”
It’s the worst thing Julia could say to Grace, worse even than the kiss. It’s the most hurtful thing. She’s not brave enough or good enough to shoulder this pain alone.
Grace unties the apron around her waist and lays it over the back of a chair. While the heat causes Julia’s hair to frizz, it smooths Grace’s, makes it shine, even under the kitchen’s poor lighting. Her cheeks are flushed and damp from the washing and scrubbing, but her eyes are dry and clear. She tugs on the blouse that hangs over her large stomach and clears her throat as if to say something. But instead she walks past Julia, past the officer waiting for Julia to give him an answer, and out the door.
Up and down Alder, porch lights shine as they did the night Elizabeth disappeared. But tonight, the air is cooler and easier to take in, even with the weight of the baby pulling at Grace’s lower back. The ladies stand outside their screen doors, some of them wearing aprons even though they won’t be serving supper tonight. A block and a half down Alder Avenue, the street is bright with porch lights and streetlights. Mr. Symanski stands under the nearest one, its glow hemming him in. As with Elizabeth’s search, he has been left behind by the other men. When Grace reaches her own driveway, she stands near the back bumper of James’s car. He didn’t take the time to drive it around to the alley and pull it into the garage. He leaves it in the driveway whenever he thinks he might need it again soon.
There are three of them this time. They are silhouettes walking up the street. Mr. Symanski must see them too. They pass the Filmore, where the windows are mostly dark and the parking lot half full. When the three shadows reach the streetlight outside Mr. Symanski’s house, they transform into three men. Grace walks into the center of the street. Still more than a block away, one of the men stops while the other two continue on. Even from this distance, Grace can feel him staring at her. He lifts a hand. She knows he is stroking his chin, petting it. She turns and walks back to her driveway.
These men don’t bother with the alley anymore-haven’t since Elizabeth disappeared, haven’t since they took her and killed her. In the beginning, long before the neighbors began talking about the Filmore and the coloreds, they passed only in the night when the neighborhood was sleeping. They would leave their green glass scattered through the alley so someone would know they had been there, so someone would know they were coming. But they have gotten away with what they did to Elizabeth and to Grace and now they’ve taken the twins. They are proud. He is proud, and he flaunts it by walking where good people walk.
The car keys lie in the center of the front seat. James knows he should stop being so careless, knows the neighborhood is a changed place and he can’t leave his keys lying about anymore. But there they are. Grace opens the door and picks them up, wraps her fingers around them, squeezes until the metal warms. She knows the house key because she has the same one in her handbag. The other key is too small. She tries the silver one. First one way, and then the other. It slides in. It turns.
With one clean hand, Malina reaches behind herself and catches the white ribbon that cascades down her back, descending from a delicate bow attached at her wide embossed collar. A back bow, the saleswoman called it. It’s Malina’s loveliest dress-a red-and-white floral print with an empire waist most perfectly suited to accentuate her slender figure. She does wish she had spent more time in the sun. A person might call her skin sallow, gray even. She could dab more color on her cheeks. That would certainly help. Yet her waistline is no larger than the day she walked down the aisle to join hands with Mr. Herze. For that, she is thankful and proud. But she does so wish she had soaked up more sun. Letting the ribbon slip through her fingers, she brushes her hands together and picks up the decorator’s bag.