When the water boils, Grace drops in her first pierogi. She stands back, but not so far that she can’t see inside the pot. White foam trims the small crescent-shaped dumpling, but the seal holds. No leaks, no swollen, waterlogged center. Soon, it floats, bouncing along the rolling boil. Grace sets her timer for two minutes. When it dings, she reaches in with a wire ladle, scoops up the noodle, and taps it out on a sheet of waxed paper. After she fishes two perfect pierogi from the pot, she adds them three at a time, gently stirring so they don’t stick. Soon enough, two dozen are done. When they are cool to the touch, she lays them in even rows in a casserole dish, each layer separated by a sheet of waxed paper, and covers the entire dish with aluminum foil. At the back door, she pulls on her gloves and hat, grabs the casserole dish and a paper bag full of Elizabeth’s clothes, and walks from the house.
Grace doesn’t go to Willingham anymore. She and James will move soon, and she’ll have to find a new place to do her shopping. By the time they settle in their new house, she’ll be a mother. She may not want to shop every day anymore. She might go only once or twice a week. Julia sometimes calls to see if Grace needs anything from the deli or the bakery. She always says no, thank you, but stop in for coffee when you get home. Julia and Bill won’t move now, but maybe someday.
The door to Mr. Symanski’s house opens.
“I am knowing that smell,” he says.
“They won’t be as good as Ewa’s.”
“Yes,” he says, taking the brown bag from Grace. “I am thinking they will be very close.”
Grace pauses inside the house, adjusts to the emptiness, and then follows Mr. Symanski into the kitchen. She sets the casserole dish on the stove and removes her gloves and hat. Mr. Symanski reaches into the brown paper bag he set on the counter and slowly, by its lavender sleeve, pulls out the dress lying on top. To afford Mr. Symanski his privacy, Grace turns toward the sink.
“I thought you’d want to keep some of her things,” she says.
She can’t bring herself to look, but probably Mr. Symanski is touching the dress’s tiny white buttons the women reattached.
“It was always being her favorite,” he says.
Grace pushes off the counter and turns. “She was wearing it the last time I saw her, Charles.”
He sits at the kitchen table, letting the dress lie across his lap. His silver hair has gotten too long and it brushes against his white-collared shirt. Ewa would have never let it grow so long.
“I am not being able to sleep with her things in the house,” Mr. Symanski says. “That is why I am giving them away. The police, they scolded me for doing it, but I am not being able to sleep.”
“Yes,” Grace says.
“It was being afternoon, you know. The river, it’s one of the only places I am remembering anymore. So many years working down there. I am thinking the river would take her away and it would be seeming as if it never happened. Such a big river. Wouldn’t you be thinking the same?”
Grace pulls out a chair and sits opposite Mr. Symanski.
“Charles?”
“It is being a horrible thing to be the last one,” he says. “You are knowing this, yes?”
“Yes.”
“I am not wanting Elizabeth to be last. Not wanting her to be alone. They are saying she would never be so long with us. I am trying to outlive her, but it is too difficult. What would have become of her if she is being the last one left? I am just too tired to carry the thought.”
Grace reaches across the table, but Mr. Symanski doesn’t take her hands.
“I am thinking someone would hear the noise.” His eyes drift off to the right as if he can see Warren Herze’s house, but he can’t. “The shot. No one heard. No one came. I am not wanting her to die in her favorite dress,” he says. “So many people looking for my Elizabeth. That was being most painful. I am knowing maybe I was wrong. Maybe she wouldn’t have been alone. And then I am wanting her back so badly I am hoping the men will find her. I am believing they might and that she will be coming home. I am sitting with all of you ladies, hoping they are finding her.”
Grace stands, walks around the kitchen table, and sits in the chair nearest Mr. Symanski.
“I am not wanting her to be the last one left,” he says. “But I am thinking I was wrong. This is being why the river didn’t take her away.”
Grace stays with Mr. Symanski until she knows James will be home soon. She won’t leave him to wonder where she is. He worries so much after all that has happened. He worries these bad things will seep into his own home and taint what is good. He worries like Grace used to.
“You’ll be telling who you must,” Mr. Symanski says at the front door. “I am not caring for myself. You are knowing this, yes?” He blinks slowly. “If you cannot be telling them while I am alive, tell them when I’m gone. It will be soon. Every day, I am feeling closer to my Ewa, and Elizabeth, too. They are being together. No one is being alone but me.”
Grace pulls Mr. Symanski’s hands together, lifts them to her lips, and then lowers them to her stomach. He smiles at the kicks and rolls he feels there. A few cars drive past. There are three For Sale signs in the neighborhood now. A fourth sign will soon go up at Orin Schofield’s house. He’ll move south to live with his daughter and her family. Others in the neighborhood, those without the money to move, will stay and do what they can to keep a nice yard and well-tended house.
No one talks to one another like they once did. People say two of the Negro families have moved away, but Grace never saw them come or go. She never saw them living alongside her. Green glass still litters the back alley some mornings. Though James fusses at her, Grace continues to clean it up. Some of the other neighbors leave it, only kicking aside the larger pieces and shards that might flatten a tire.
James and Grace won’t sail on the Ste. Claire this year because the baby is so close to coming. But they have already agreed. On July 4, they’ll drive to the foot of Woodward and watch as the passengers gather on the gangplank, and after everyone has boarded, the ship will pull away, drawing a lazy wake behind her. Steam will flow from her stacks, and the hollow horn will blast, echoing through the streets of downtown Detroit. It’ll be a lonely sound and, for a time, Grace will feel something has been lost. But then she’ll remember the shine on the brass railings and the glossy dance floor where she first fell in love with her husband. She and James will watch and listen until the boat disappears down the Detroit River, leaving behind an empty stretch of water. They’ll take their own daughter one day and they’ll always arrive early to secure a spot in the front of the line so the railings and the fittings will shine as if never before touched.
At the end of Mr. Symanski’s sidewalk, Grace pushes open his iron gate. The latch is broken. Tonight, over supper, she’ll ask James to fix it. She and James, together, will come this weekend to trim Mr. Symanski’s lawn and invite him for Sunday supper. Grace will make a roast and potatoes and Mr. Symanski and James will watch baseball on the television. Bill and Julia and the girls will come for dessert. The girls like to sprinkle salt on the ice when James makes ice cream. Then they’ll sit outdoors until long past dark. On the other side of the gate, Grace pulls it closed and walks toward home.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
It has been my great fortune to again work with the wonderful Denise Roy. My deepest thanks to you, Denise, for your suggestions, observations, and insights and for knowing my characters better than I know them. My thanks, also, to Brian Tart and the entire team at Dutton and Plume for their support of my work.
Over the past few years, during which I have had the privilege to work with Jenny Bent of the Bent Agency, I have learned that perseverance is a most important quality in an agent. Jenny is a shining example of this trait. My thanks to you, Jenny, for never giving up, for your honesty, and for your guidance.