Grace folds Elizabeth’s dress in half and then in half again. “Stay away from Malina,” Grace says to Cassia.
Grace will have to return to Alder Avenue soon. She’ll stop at Julia’s and apologize for having not visited earlier. It’s time to go home.
“As best you can, stay away.”
Standing in Julia’s kitchen, tugging on their thick belts and tapping their heavy boots, the police don’t understand. How could they? No, Bill isn’t here. He’s been gone since yesterday morning. Julia doesn’t know where. She called his brother’s house. They’ll tell him when they see him. He wasn’t at work, either. When did she last see the girls? She can’t remember. They don’t understand why she can’t remember. Julia must have cooked the girls something for supper. The mess in the kitchen is nothing. It was an accident. She tipped over the garbage. Yes, Julia must have cooked them supper, must have seen them to bed after they took a bath and washed their hair, but she can’t remember.
The officer with brown hair scribbles with a yellow pencil. His name is Thompson. He’s the man who counted out eight houses and told Julia she probably didn’t see quite as much as she thought she saw the day Elizabeth disappeared. He was the first to know it was Julia’s fault Elizabeth would never come home.
“Their bedroom?” he asks, and both men follow Julia upstairs.
This is where they sleep. Arie in the yellow. Izzy in the blue. Julia always tidies up for Izzy. She isn’t so handy making a bed. But not today. It was already done so nicely. Julia begins to cry. She tells them that yesterday Izzy tricked her and snuck away to Beersdorf’s. The officers already know this. They’ll keep checking the streets between here and there, but so far, no sign of either girl.
Walking down the stairs, one of the officers holds Julia by the elbow so she won’t stumble. At the landing, she looks through the front door that stands open. Out on Alder Avenue, people are coming and going. No one bothers to close the door.
There was a belt and stolen tuna and the hammer. The girls came home with a hammer. They stole it from a neighbor’s yard. Malina Herze’s yard. Julia scolded them. She ordered them to return it and apologize. She must have insisted, because why wouldn’t she? Yes, now she remembers. They did try to take it back. They came home a few minutes later and said Mr. Herze didn’t want the hammer. He said it wasn’t his and a man would know his own hammer, but he took it anyway. If Warren Herze was home, it must have been after five. Five thirty or so. That’s it. She last saw them shortly after five o’clock. Yesterday. No, Bill wasn’t home. Yes, he was gone all night.
Soon enough, porch lights will glow up and down the street and stray beams of light, cast off from flashlights, will dart around side yards and throw their glare on picture windows. Everyone is remembering Elizabeth Symanski and hoping this doesn’t turn out the same.
When the two officers have made their way down Julia’s sidewalk and it’s apparent they are headed to Malina’s house, she walks back into the dining room and picks a carrot from the bunch lying on the table. Its leafy greens are a beautiful deep shade, not yet drooping or turning brown. The orange color is uniform from top to bottom. Suitable for one of her cakes. Behind her, in the kitchen, the side door creaks. Mr. Herze must have left it ajar. So odd he would go directly into the garage when arriving home early from work. Malina had watched him through the kitchen window. Wearing a shirt and tie and his best leather shoes, he walked from his car in through the garage’s side door. When he reappeared seconds later, Malina hurried back into the living room. He entered the house through the door off the kitchen, rushed past Malina, and as he climbed the stairs two at a time, he called out that he’d be taking up with the search party. When he came back down the stairs, red faced and panting and moving slower than he had on the way up, he wore brown slacks, a weekend shirt, and the shoes he normally wore when mowing the lawn. He left the house through the front door.
Shifting her attention back to the carrot, Malina rolls it from side to side, grabs the grater with her left hand, and begins to scrub the carrot over its tiny blades. Through her front window, she has been watching the ladies gather at the ends of their driveways. There is no reason for anyone to suspect Mr. Herze, no reason Malina should. Had she bothered to walk a few yards past the bakery, she would have seen his sedan parked in its usual spot. But in the end, she hadn’t seen the need. She left the bakery, marched to her car, and drove straight home.
It meant nothing to see that girl with the carriage. Any one of a dozen men could be the father of that child. Any one of a dozen women could be its mother. But there was the look the girl and Grace Richardson gave Malina. They both looked kindly upon Malina, their eyelids heavy, their lips slightly parted. They inhaled as if preparing to speak but not quite knowing the best words to use. They had looked at Malina with pity. With pity, for goodness sake.
Outside, the men and ladies continue to shout up and down the street. They leave their groups and spread out, disappearing around houses and down the block. It will do no good. If the twins were anywhere near, they would have heard the first call, and while their manners are atrocious, they generally come running when Julia calls. Still, from far away, and somewhat closer and as close as the next yard over, people shout out to those twins. Malina hears their calls through the mesh screen in her open dining-room window. Arie. Izzy. Or Arabelle. Isabelle. At the sound of a knock, Malina sets down the carrot, wipes her hands on her apron, and opens the door.
“Mrs. Herze?” the officer asks.
It’s the officer with the dark curls. He asks Malina’s name as if he doesn’t remember her. She was hoping for the sweet blond detective with the red lips.
“Certainly,” Malina says.
“We’ve a few questions for you,” the one with the straight brown hair says. “You are familiar with the girls who live across the street?”
“They don’t live there,” Malina says. “They are only visiting.”
“And you are aware they’re missing?”
“My husband is among the men searching.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the officer with dark curls says. “We understand they came to see you yesterday.”
“You make it sound as if they were visiting for pleasure.”
The straight-haired officer flips open a small notebook and taps on it with a pencil. He is hurrying Malina along.
“They are a menace, those two,” she says. “They were sent to deliver an apology.” Malina unties the apron at her waist and folds it over one arm. “Would you like to see what they did to my flowerbeds?”
“Do you recall the time of their visit, ma’am?”
“I certainly do. Five forty-five. Precisely. Mr. Herze had arrived home, and he is always quite precise.”
“And they had stolen something from you, ma’am?”
Malina smooths the apron that lies over her arm. She line dries them every Saturday morning, sprinkles warm water on them, and presses each with a hot iron. Behind her, the side door creaks, drawn open by the breeze that whips past the two officers and through the house. If they would ask, Malina would tell them. She knows she would. If only they would ask her… Do you think your husband is a bad man? Has he done bad things? Why would those girls steal a hammer? Such an odd thing for two girls to do. She would tell the truth, wouldn’t she, if only they would ask.
“Those two stole the fruits of my labor,” she says. “Ruined my lovely flowers.”