Over and over, Malina issues these warnings, and as ten minutes stretch into thirty and she has nothing new to tell, the ladies tire of her. They begin to whisper to one another, some sharing stories of what their husbands have told them, others fretting over why their husbands have told them nothing. They stand to talk across one another and switch seats to hear something new, and as they move and shift and sit and stand, they stir up perspiration and the room grows hotter and the scent of their perfume and hairspray and body lotion and styling gel grows stronger and stronger. Sucking a lungful of smoke from her cigarette, Julia considers excusing herself to see to the twins. Every summer, her nieces visit for two weeks, and they arrived a few days ago. They’re home alone, poor things. They’re probably desperate for a bite of lunch. That would be a plausible excuse.
Even given the unseemly circumstances surrounding today’s meeting, Julia is more comfortable at Grace’s house than she ever is at her own. Whenever the two get together for coffee, it’s almost always at Grace’s house. When they play cards, it’s at Grace’s kitchen table. When their husbands watch a game, it’s in Grace’s living room. When they barbecue steaks, it’s in Grace’s backyard. The two houses stand on the same side of Alder Avenue and are separated by two blocks. From the outside, one house is the exact replica of the other, but inside, they have their distinctions. Grace has a tiled kitchen; Julia, linoleum. Grace’s walls are freshly painted. Julia’s are not. The linens are ironed at Grace’s house. They are wrinkled at Julia’s. Grace is pregnant. Julia is not.
The sound of breaking glass is the thing that finally silences the room and gives Julia her excuse. It also sets Betty Lawson’s baby to crying. She has been out in the kitchen, where it was supposed to be quiet so she could sleep undisturbed.
“Let me,” Julia says, leaping from her seat. She drops her half-smoked cigarette in the remains of her iced tea and raises a hand so Betty Lawson will keep her seat on the sofa. “I’ll see to her.”
A few of the ladies tilt their heads and press a hand over their hearts as if to say how sweet. A few others raise their brows as if to warn Betty against trusting Julia with her baby. Crying or not, this little one, the first born on Alder in three years, is a reminder to Julia and every other lady that Julia no longer has a child of her own.
In the kitchen, the baby is still crying, and on the floor near the sink lies a broken jar, partially held together by its paper label. White globs of mayonnaise are splattered across the tile and the bottom of the refrigerator.
“Soapy hands,” Grace says, rocking the carriage to calm the baby inside.
For the occasion of hosting today’s luncheon, Grace has swept her blond hair into a French roll. She wears an apron stained with barbecue sauce, and a few loose hairs dangle about her face, and yet she is the elegant one. Julia, who labored all morning on her hair and twice ironed the blouse she bought at Hudson’s for just this event, is the rumpled one.
“Do you mind?” Grace nods off toward the back door. “It’ll be Elizabeth.”
Julia sidesteps the broken jar, picking up the larger pieces along the way and dropping them in the trash can under the sink. It’s not the sound of a crying baby that draws up the memories of Julia’s own little one. It’s the smell. Julia bought the same lotion for Maryanne. Back then, Mr. Olsen kept it on the second aisle of his drugstore, top shelf, pink bottle. Probably still does. Sliding between the refrigerator and Grace’s dinette, Julia hears it-a quiet tapping.
Elizabeth Symanski stands on the other side of the screened door. Every day, she comes to Grace’s house for lunch, and as is Elizabeth’s normal posture, her head sags, her shoulders are stooped, and her arms dangle at her sides. Her long blond hair, dull and frayed on the ends, makes her look much older than her twenty-one or so years. As Elizabeth walks into the kitchen, the hem of her lavender dress brushes against Julia’s shins. Elizabeth normally wears yellow on Fridays. The colors help her remember the days. Red for Mondays. Blue for Tuesdays. White for Wednesdays. Before Elizabeth’s mother passed away, a year ago this spring, she dressed Elizabeth every morning. In her final days, Ewa Symanski’s bony fingers struggled to thread the buttons and knot the bows, and she worried aloud who would tend to her daughter when she was gone. Now Mr. Symanski must struggle with the same. Even though Elizabeth is old enough to be called a young woman, twenty-one or twenty-two, she is unable to dress herself.
Because she is wearing one of her finer dresses, Elizabeth also wears her black shoes, her Sunday best, and as she walks heel-toe, heel-toe, they click across the tile floor. Click, click, click, until she reaches the dinette, where she sits. By the time Elizabeth has settled into her seat, the baby has stopped crying. Normally Julia might remind Elizabeth to keep her voice down so as to not wake the baby again, but there’s no reason to hush Elizabeth. She rarely speaks, and when she does, she asks after her mother, Ewa. Mr. Symanski always says to humor Elizabeth, because what’s the harm? Tell her Ewa will be along shortly and that Elizabeth should mind herself until then.
Backing away from the quiet carriage, Grace slips around the table and reaches for the telephone. Letting the receiver hang over her shoulder, she dials with one hand and, with the other, fingers the loose threads left by a button missing from the back of Elizabeth’s dress. By tomorrow, Grace will have picked up the dress from Mr. Symanski and reattached a new button. She waits for the phone to ring once, her usual signal to Mr. Symanski that Elizabeth has arrived safely, and then hangs up and flops into a chair at the kitchen table.
“Did you know half the members wouldn’t come here today?” Grace waves a hand around her kitchen. “All this food will go to waste. They didn’t want to park their cars on this street, that’s what they said. As if it’s not safe here anymore.”
Though no one actually thinks the prostitutes have made their way to Alder Avenue, other coloreds have. Three families have moved into the Filmore Apartments on the west end of Alder, and isn’t that proof enough trouble can’t be far behind? Just last night, the paper was filled with news of another plant closing. This is what should worry the ladies. So many factories already stand empty-rotting shells surrounded by boarded-up restaurants and taverns. The green glow, so much like a fog, that once clung to the city’s rooftops has begun to lift. Murray, Packard, Studebaker. All of them closed. This is what should worry the ladies.
“Never mind them,” Julia says, wiping up the last of the mayonnaise spill. “So you and James will have leftovers for the next six weeks.”
“Have you read today’s paper?” Grace asks.
Turning her back on the baby carriage, Julia steps up to the stove and inhales the steam rising from the baked beans. The brown sugar and catsup that bubbles up does little to mask the smell of the pink lotion.
“No, and I don’t intend to,” she says, dragging a finger through the simmering beans and sticking it in her mouth. “Needs more brown sugar.”
Even over the stove, the sweet smell of a new baby fills the kitchen. It’s the white powder, too. Julia was always careful not to use too much on Maryanne.
“But aren’t you curious? Don’t you wonder who might be involved?” Grace flicks her eyes in the direction of the living room as if one of the ladies’ husbands is the possible offender.
“No, I don’t. I don’t have the slightest damned interest, and neither should you. It’s all but blown over already. Bill says the police are gone. Hardly even bothered with any questions. Brown sugar?”