back, hangs across his wrinkled brow. His white-collared shirt is untucked, his tie has pulled loose at the knot, and his pants are rumpled at the knees. He has shrunk in the year since Ewa died, the kind of withering that happens when a man loses his wife.
“I’m sorry to disturb you so late,” Grace says. “But I realized, after all the ladies left . . .”
She leans around Mr. Symanski so she can see into the living room, where Elizabeth usually sits in the evenings. She likes the brown wingback that used to be her mother’s. Ewa called it her fireside chair. It stands empty.
“I realized that today is Elizabeth’s birthday,” Grace says.
Mr. Symanski looks first at James and then at Grace. “I was sleeping.” He tugs on the pants hanging loosely at his waist. “I think I was sleeping.”
Like Grace did, Mr. Symanski leans to get a better look, as if Elizabeth is standing behind James.
“She is being with you?” Mr. Symanski says.
James steps forward. “Charles, it’s James and Grace. Are you all right?”
“Elizabeth, she is with you, yes?”
“No,” Grace says. “No, she isn’t. She came home. Hours ago. She left me hours ago. We came to wish her happy birthday.”
Mr. Symanski looks into the house to where Elizabeth would usually sit, her head lowered, not noticing someone at the door. The living room is dark. One of Ewa’s crocheted blankets lies across the sofa where Mr. Symanski was probably napping. No smell of anything baking in the oven. No radio. No voices.
“Elizabeth is being with you?”
James begins the search in the backyard. He starts in the garage, where it stays cool even on the hottest days, and checks behind the weeping forsythia that grows along the back porch. And while James searches outside, Grace helps Mr. Symanski to a seat in the kitchen and then hurries through the house, both hands supporting her heavy stomach. She opens every door, leans into each stale room, calls out Elizabeth’s name. She checks every closet, waves away the smell of mothballs that reminds her of Ewa. In the bedrooms, she checks under the beds, brushing aside the cobwebs that cling to her forehead and coughing at the dust kicked up when she throws back the patchwork quilts and lifts the lace bed skirts. She calls the neighbors, one on each side. They call more neighbors, and they, still more. The husbands set aside their newspapers and shut down their televisions. Ladies leave the dishes not yet washed and the laundry not yet folded. From upstairs, from down the hall, from in the cellar, Grace calls out for Mr. Symanski to stay put. Don’t worry. You know how she sometimes wanders. We’ll find her. We’ll find her in no time.
In the Symanskis’ front yard, James gathers the neighbors, and on the back of an envelope, he sketches Alder Avenue and Marietta one block to the south and Tuttle one block to the north. He draws six boxes, dividing up the area, assigns one man to each and tells them, “Get together as much help as you can. She’s small, you know. Check every porch, every garage. Behind bushes. Inside cars. She might be scared. Might want to hide.”
The men separate themselves into groups and some run north, while others run south. One group lingers and Orin Schofield gathers them across the street from the Filmore Apartments. Orin lives two houses down from Grace and James on the opposite side of the alley. He lost his wife three years ago. Grace takes him a roast with carrots and new potatoes the first and third Sunday of every month, always the same thing because it’s one of the few dishes she can count on to turn out well for her, and while she cleans his kitchen, he talks about moving south to live with his daughter.
“I’d bet good money someone in there can tell you the girl’s whereabouts,” Orin shouts, pointing toward the Filmore. The top of his balding head is red though the sun has fallen low in the sky. If she could, Grace would tell him to take himself
“I’m sorry to disturb you so late,” Grace says. “But I realized, after all the ladies left . . .”
She leans around Mr. Symanski so she can see into the living room, where Elizabeth usually sits in the evenings. She likes the brown wingback that used to be her mother’s. Ewa called it her fireside chair. It stands empty.
“I realized that today is Elizabeth’s birthday,” Grace says.
Mr. Symanski looks first at James and then at Grace. “I was sleeping.” He tugs on the pants hanging loosely at his waist. “I think I was sleeping.”
Like Grace did, Mr. Symanski leans to get a better look, as if Elizabeth is standing behind James.
“She is being with you?” Mr. Symanski says.
James steps forward. “Charles, it’s James and Grace. Are you all right?”
“Elizabeth, she is with you, yes?”
“No,” Grace says. “No, she isn’t. She came home. Hours ago. She left me hours ago. We came to wish her happy birthday.”
Mr. Symanski looks into the house to where Elizabeth would usually sit, her head lowered, not noticing someone at the door. The living room is dark. One of Ewa’s crocheted blankets lies across the sofa where Mr. Symanski was probably napping. No smell of anything baking in the oven. No radio. No voices.
“Elizabeth is being with you?”
James begins the search in the backyard. He starts in the garage, where it stays cool even on the hottest days, and checks behind the weeping forsythia that grows along the back porch. And while James searches outside, Grace helps Mr. Symanski to a seat in the kitchen and then hurries through the house, both hands supporting her heavy stomach. She opens every door, leans into each stale room, calls out Elizabeth’s name. She checks every closet, waves away the smell of mothballs that reminds her of Ewa. In the bedrooms, she checks under the beds, brushing aside the cobwebs that cling to her forehead and coughing at the dust kicked up when she throws back the patchwork quilts and lifts the lace bed skirts. She calls the neighbors, one on each side. They call more neighbors, and they, still more. The husbands set aside their newspapers and shut down their televisions. Ladies leave the dishes not yet washed and the laundry not yet folded. From upstairs, from down the hall, from in the cellar, Grace calls out for Mr. Symanski to stay put. Don’t worry. You know how she sometimes wanders. We’ll find her. We’ll find her in no time.
In the Symanskis’ front yard, James gathers the neighbors, and on the back of an envelope, he sketches Alder Avenue and Marietta one block to the south and Tuttle one block to the north. He draws six boxes, dividing up the area, assigns one man to each and tells them, “Get together as much help as you can. She’s small, you know. Check every porch, every garage. Behind bushes. Inside cars. She might be scared. Might want to hide.”
The men separate themselves into groups and some run north, while others run south. One group lingers and Orin Schofield gathers them across the street from the Filmore Apartments. Orin lives two houses down from Grace and James on the opposite side of the alley. He lost his wife three years ago. Grace takes him a roast with carrots and new potatoes the first and third Sunday of every month, always the same thing because it’s one of the few dishes she can count on to turn out well for her, and while she cleans his kitchen, he talks about moving south to live with his daughter.
“I’d bet good money someone in there can tell you the girl’s whereabouts,” Orin shouts, pointing toward the Filmore. The top of his balding head is red though the sun has fallen low in the sky. If she could, Grace would tell him to take himself
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