“I saw her,” she says. “Elizabeth was home. I’m sure she was home. Surely someone else has seen her. Surely I wasn’t the last.”
Malina steps away from the window when Julia and a police officer walk down Julia’s driveway toward the street. She leans against the wall, where no one will be able to see her, and continues flipping through the newspaper. Twice she’s read through it and has yet to find anything about the dead woman on Willingham. If only a reporter would have commented on the woman’s stature. Was she slender and petite or on the stout, portly side? This is all Malina needs to know.
If it weren’t for all the people shouting out to Elizabeth Symanski, Malina might open a window or two to cool down the house. While her skirt’s wide, six-yard sweep is perfectly suited to emphasize her narrow waist, it’s a curse in the heat. It’s only her imagination that those voices are getting closer. The men aren’t circling her house, closing in because they suddenly realize Mr. Herze is not among them. If anyone asks why Malina’s driveway is once again empty at long past suppertime, she’ll tell them Mr. Herze is busy dealing with that nastiness down on Willingham. Someone must coordinate with the police and see to it the matter of that dead woman is solved. This is what she’ll tell them, but only if someone asks.
“Good evening.”
Malina closes the newspaper, crumples it as she draws it to her chest, and swings around. Mr. Herze stands in the doorway, his briefcase in one hand, his hat in the other.
“You’ve startled me,” Malina says. She folds the newspaper in thirds. “I didn’t expect you home so early. I rather thought the police would be keeping you busy.”
Under the soft glow thrown by the porch light, the fringe of white hair around Mr. Herze’s head glistens with perspiration. This unusual heat, even when it breaks in the evenings, is difficult for him to manage. He glances at the newspaper Malina still holds in one hand and then at Malina.
“It’s yesterday’s,” she says. “Today’s is there.” She points at the entryway table. “Right there, waiting for you.” Malina won’t search today’s paper for news of the dead woman until Mr. Herze has gone to bed, or better yet, not until he has left for work tomorrow.
“You must be famished,” Malina says. “The table is set. I’ll have supper on in no time.”
“What’s going on out there?” Mr. Herze says, kissing the cheek Malina offers him and then leaning through the open door.
Across the street, the officer and Julia still stand at the end of her driveway. Malina lures Mr. Herze into the house with a nod of her head and closes the door. He pulls a kerchief from his front pocket, pats his upper lip and forehead, and glances about the house as if wondering why it’s so hot. His white shirt has wilted since this morning, and it clings to his soft middle.
“It’s nothing,” Malina says. “A lot of fuss over nothing.”
This is how it should always be-Malina waiting at the dining-room table, supper in the oven, the ice bucket full. She should never find herself rushing through the back door, stuffing one of her nicer dresses in the closet, ruining a perfectly good pair of utility nylons because she couldn’t take the time to slip them off with care, and crawling into bed without removing her makeup or pinning the hair at her temples. After leaving Willingham Avenue, her hammer abandoned in the alley, this is what she had done. As it turned out, she needn’t have been in such a hurry. Mr. Herze followed a full thirty minutes later. The hair at the nape of his neck had been slightly damp and he smelled of fresh soap. His shirt, however, smelled of the girl. No matter that he always washed up afterward, only Malina could rid those shirts of the stench. This evening, he appears dry throughout and smells only of cigarettes smoked in a closed office, warmed-over coffee, and the faded remnants of cologne sprayed on first thing this morning. No trace of his girl.
“What do you mean, nothing?” Mr. Herze says. “Why are there people running about with flashlights? And why are there police on the street?”
Malina sets Mr. Herze’s briefcase in the front closet and hangs his hat on the hook inside the closet door.
“I imagine it has to do with Elizabeth Symanski,” Malina says.
“What of her?”
Malina smooths Mr. Herze’s thinning hair, rests one cheek on his shirt, the limp cotton moist against her skin, and inhales through her nose. Still no evidence of the girl.
“Elizabeth?” Mr. Herze says again, nudging Malina to continue. “What’s become of the girl?”
“Apparently, she’s wandered off,” Malina says, pulling away. Tomorrow, she’ll fish this shirt from the hamper and smell it again.
“And they are searching for her?” Mr. Herze says, crossing in front of Malina to look out the dining-room window. “Have there been many men searching?”
“Yes, I suppose there have been.”
Without another word, Mr. Herze lumbers up the stairs, taking them two at a time. A few minutes later, he returns, wearing brown trousers and the white undershirt he normally wears when fussing about in his garage. His chest pumps and his face glistens.
“Have you taken to driving at night again?” Mr. Herze’s face, except for the sheen on top of his head, disappears in the dark entry. His white shirt glows.
Malina inhales, holds the air in her chest, and slowly, so Mr. Herze will not see it or feel it or hear it, she exhales. “Certainly not. Why on earth would I do such a thing?”
Mr. Herze trails his fingers over Malina’s wrist, past her elbow, and wraps them around her upper arm. He knows she doesn’t care for sleeveless blouses, doesn’t like for others to see the loose skin that hangs there, and so this particular area will never show. His fingers dig into the slender bone.
“It’s difficult for you still to see after dusk?”
Malina smiles, controls each breath so it flows smoothly. “The reflections are intolerable.”
Still holding Malina by her arm, her fingertips tingling from lack of blood, Mr. Herze opens the door. He stands in the threshold, not quite inside, not quite out.
“So, you’re home then? Every night?” he asks, and slides his hand up to Malina’s shoulder, where he burrows his thumb under her delicate collarbone.
The proper name is the clavicle. She knows because Mr. Herze once broke one of hers. He presses his face close and studies her eyes. He’s inspecting her for signs she’s taken one of her pills. She stares back, doesn’t let her eyes stray, holds her lids wide while reminding herself to blink so he’ll know she hasn’t. Dr. Cannon says if she does her counting and gets plenty of fresh air, she’ll have no need of them.
“You’re certain you’ve not taken to driving after dark?”
Malina drifts closer to Mr. Herze so anyone passing will think she is nuzzling her husband.
“Why would you ask such a silly thing? I have so much to do with my evenings. I can’t remember the last time I started an engine after sunset.”
And before she can stop herself, Malina has lied to her husband.
Day 2
CHAPTER FIVE
It’s been one full day since Elizabeth disappeared. Grace stands at the kitchen window, both hands resting on her hard, round stomach, and looks onto the dark alley, hoping Elizabeth will shuffle out from behind the garage, her arms stiff at her sides, her head lowered. But there is no one. The night air is cool and motionless. Inside, the oven clicks and heats the house, filling it with the smell of apple-banana muffins. Grace gathers her hair on top of her head, twists it, pins it in place, and turns her face toward the small fan Mother placed in the open window. The fan rotates from side to side, drawing in the outside air, cooling Grace’s face and neck.