She begins by cupping the white triangular bag in one hand so the large end stands open and the narrow end hangs toward the table. Next, she scoops up a spoonful of icing and drops it inside. Another few scoops and she folds over the wide end of the bag, squeezing it slowly until icing drips from the tip. She licks her fingers, wraps one hand around the small end, and places the other above the bulge of icing. Already, ten cakes have been iced and a scalloped edge drawn on each. Because it’s so hot in the house, the trim has slid off a few of them and is melting down the cakes’ sides.
It will be payday again. Eventually. It comes quicker than any other day. Even before Mr. Herze comes home, Malina can smell it. She smells it every day now, so maybe payday doesn’t matter anymore. That sweet musky smell will stick to Mr. Herze’s collar. She’ll fill the kitchen sink and soak the shirt overnight. A year of paydays has passed since she first smelled it. She didn’t know what it was in those early days. Only that it was a sour, unforgiving smell that seeped into her house and she could never quite scrub it away.
She squeezes the white bag and icing drips onto the cake. Too warm. A scallop won’t hold its shape if the icing is too warm. The consistency is so important, the most important thing, really. Not quite as stiff as the icing she uses to sculpt leaves and rose petals, but thicker and drier than what she uses to ice the top and sides. Hold the bag horizontal to the cake. Give it one short burst of pressure to lay down the wide end of the shell, then let up. Slowly draw the tip forward and tap it to the cake to cut off the flow. A single perfect scallop. She had thought the weather was cool enough, but the house is too warm. She should have opened more windows. Her scallop droops and melts over the edge. She straightens the bag and begins again.
Another cake is done. It’s all Malina can do today. The bake sale would normally have taken place in a few short weeks but they changed the date because Elizabeth Symanski disappeared and now they know she is dead. Now the cakes will have to set another few weeks. Shame Malina didn’t think of that earlier.
Malina lays the icing bag on the table, unties the apron from around her waist, wipes her fingers on it, and tosses it on the dining room table. In the foyer, she slips off her sensible two-inch heels and steps into the white stilettos with the slender toes. They are more suited to the red-and-white dress she wears. Admiring the curve of her delicate ankle, she rolls her foot in a slow circle. First one and then the other. Her calves, so perfectly formed, haven’t changed in all these years. So lovely. Taking a deep breath that makes her chest lift up and her lungs fill, she grabs the ribbon that flows down her back and walks toward the side door.
Eventually the child will outgrow that carriage. Eventually it will walk down Willingham, doughy and soft like Mr. Herze. It will be a creamy brown color and will tuck its small fist in its mother’s dark-brown hand. Eventually it will be tall and walk with a gait like Mr. Herze, shoulders rounded, hump at the base of its neck, always seeming tired, worn-out. Eventually everyone will know.
Eventually, someone will begin to suspect Mr. Herze killed that woman. They’ll discover that the woman, before she died, spoke poorly of the child in the carriage, and Mr. Herze, like any man, would protect his own. It’s the only reason a good man would kill. But then, someone, eventually everyone, will tap their heads and purse their lips and think a wife would do the same. Mistakenly, accidentally, she would do the same. She would lash out with the only thing she had in hand if suddenly she realized her husband was father to another woman’s baby. And lastly, they’ll realize as they should have in the first place, that it was the mother. Wouldn’t the mother-the girl-kill to protect her child? Wouldn’t that be most likely of all? And the man who loves the mother-the girl-would protect her because he is good. He would bring home the hammer that did the killing and put it back as if that night, that terrible night, never happened.
A man who would do these things doesn’t covet the baby’s mother because she is thin and slight. He protects her and so he must love her. Nor does he covet the twins across the street who skip through sprinklers and trample lovely snapdragons. He watches those twins with a longing, missing the children he could never have with his wife. He watches those twins and imagines the day his child by another woman does the running and skipping and laughing. He loves the baby and he loves its mother. Eventually, someone, everyone, will know.
Within hours, the men will end their search, if not because the twins are found, then because they must rest and prepare to begin again tomorrow, and Mr. Herze will come home. The police will realize Mr. Herze and Malina saw the twins last. If Malina is wrong, and Mr. Herze looks upon the twins with a foul sort of longing, the police will discover it. They will wonder why Mr. Herze would make a gift of those flyers and they’ll discover the truth. Surely the police will discover it. If they don’t, Mr. Herze will in due course remarry. This new wife won’t tolerate a house tainted by Malina. This new wife will be thin and slight and she’ll insist they move north, where the yards stretch out and the homes are newly built. The twins will be safe because Malina is gone.
Letting the screen door slam shut behind her, Malina crosses the drive and walks into the garage, where she makes her way through the bags and boxes, sidestepping them, trying not to damage the dangling hems and cuffs. The last of the clothes are ready to be delivered to the thrift store. Clean and folded, properly mended. Someone will see to them. The key to Mr. Herze’s storage cabinet hangs on the pegboard inside a carefully drawn line right next to the hammer. Both of them, a perfect fit. Outside, voices shout-Izzy, Arie and Isabelle, Arabelle. Engines rattle to a start, screen doors slam shut, dogs bark at strangers in their yards. Surely, someone will see to all these clothes.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
James tried a few times to teach Grace. When they were first married, she practiced in the parking lot at St. Alban’s on a Saturday afternoon. He had placed her hands on the steering wheel and kept one of his own on it to guide her. “Like this,” he had said. The car sprung forward when Grace jammed her foot into the gas pedal. And when she pressed too hard on the brake, James fell, both hands reaching for the dash. He laughed, pulled Grace to him, and kissed her hard on the mouth. “Eyes forward and straight ahead.”
Father never taught Grace to drive because he died before she was old enough to learn. Several summers passed before she and Mother boarded the Ste. Claire again. Mother taught herself to drive during those years after Father died and took a job as a receptionist for Ford. In the summer of 1946, she pulled on a linen jacket and her best Sunday hat and said it was time to get on with it.
Grace had no urge to run ahead of the crowd that year and felt no tingle when her feet hit the wooden gangplank. She was one of the ladies now, tall as any other. Her waist was narrow, her neck slender, her frame strong and straight. As it had been every other year, she heard him before she saw him. The musicians paused and there was that burst of laughter. When the music began again, he spun past, another girl whose hair color Grace doesn’t remember in his arms. He had thinned out during his years away. Many of the men had that look, as if they had been forced to go without. He had noticed her and smiled. He remembers this smile but says it wasn’t the first. He says the first was when Grace was a child. That’s romance talking, not reason.
First she lowers the gearshift into reverse. Then she taps on the gas. The car lunges backward. Again, another tap. It rolls and jumps past the sidewalk and bounces off the edge of the curb. In the middle of the street, Grace pulls the gearshift down, and with her eyes forward and straight ahead, she rolls the steering wheel, one hand over the other like she has seen James do so many times.