and pushes herself into a sitting position, not intending to sleep for a long time. “Elizabeth is never going to come home.”
• • •
Arie waits until Aunt Julia has pulled the door closed, but not all the way closed because the girls like a slice of light from the hallway to shine into the room, and she waits some more until Izzy has rolled away and yanked the top sheet over her shoulder. When Izzy’s breathing changes from short puffs of air she exhales because she’s angry with Aunt Julia into long, slow breaths that mean she is asleep, Arie slips one finger under the rosary hung from her headboard and drapes it across her lap.
Grandma has always said the rosary is made of mother-of-pearl beads and that’s why it’s something special. But then Izzy will say mother-of-pearl beads don’t splinter and chip and that rosary is no more special than any other. Every night back home at Grandma’s house, Arie runs her fingers over the smooth beads, usually while holding them under the sheet she has tented with two bent knees. Even though she tries to hide her praying from Izzy, Izzy always knows.
When she was younger, Arie would pray for Mama to come home and sometimes still does. Then there was the Russian dog. Arie prayed only five prayers a night for her and never told Izzy or anyone else because praying for a Russian, even if she was a dog, was probably a sinful thing to do. Izzy says Arie doesn’t do it right anyway. She is supposed to recite Our Father and Hail Mary and follow a path around the beads. This is why Arie hides them and waits until Izzy is asleep. Tonight, as she slips her fingers from the first round, cool bead to the next, she thinks she’ll say twenty prayers for Elizabeth. Or maybe twenty isn’t enough. Maybe she’ll pray all night until morning comes and somewhere along the way, she’ll say a prayer for Mrs. Richardson, too.
Day 3
CHAPTER EIGHT
I t came down directly from the bishop. A special dispensation, he called it. No Mass on this Sunday morning. Every parishioner was excused. The search for Elizabeth was far more important and wouldn’t the good Lord agree. Malina was certain He would.
This morning, Malina has flyers for the men to nail on lampposts and tape in store windows. Mr. Herze had one of the girls in his office make them on a machine at work—a perfect, crisp stack of one hundred flyers, one exactly like the next. A marvel, really, and a blessing in a situation such as this. With the stack tucked securely under one arm, Malina kicks open the kitchen door, the pan of butternut rolls she carries still warm. At the car, she sets the rolls and flyers on the backseat, tucks under her skirt, and stoops to her flowers.
The snapdragons have sprouted early this year. The red, yellow, and pink blossoms draw a colorful border that extends along the front of her property and follows the walkway to her front porch. She reaches into the towering plants and yanks out a dandelion, inspects the threadlike roots, sniffs them, and tosses the weed aside. Another strange smell, but this time, it has polluted her flowers. This is her third visit to the car, and with every trip, the smell grows more robust, as if gaining strength as the day heats up. Whatever the source, it’s not the roots of a dandelion.
All along Alder Avenue, wives click up and down their sidewalks because, although there is no Mass today, it’s Sunday and they feel obliged to wear their leather heels, slender skirts, and white gloves. They carry trays of fried chicken and meatloaves baked early this morning. Others carry desserts, finger foods the men can easily grab. Something sweet and frosted to lift their spirits. Directly across the street, a burst of laughter erupts and those two young girls tumble out of Julia Wagner’s front door. Oversize gardening gloves dangle from their hands. Their wiry arms and legs are bare. Once on the porch, where they must remember the block is praying for Elizabeth
• • •
Arie waits until Aunt Julia has pulled the door closed, but not all the way closed because the girls like a slice of light from the hallway to shine into the room, and she waits some more until Izzy has rolled away and yanked the top sheet over her shoulder. When Izzy’s breathing changes from short puffs of air she exhales because she’s angry with Aunt Julia into long, slow breaths that mean she is asleep, Arie slips one finger under the rosary hung from her headboard and drapes it across her lap.
Grandma has always said the rosary is made of mother-of-pearl beads and that’s why it’s something special. But then Izzy will say mother-of-pearl beads don’t splinter and chip and that rosary is no more special than any other. Every night back home at Grandma’s house, Arie runs her fingers over the smooth beads, usually while holding them under the sheet she has tented with two bent knees. Even though she tries to hide her praying from Izzy, Izzy always knows.
When she was younger, Arie would pray for Mama to come home and sometimes still does. Then there was the Russian dog. Arie prayed only five prayers a night for her and never told Izzy or anyone else because praying for a Russian, even if she was a dog, was probably a sinful thing to do. Izzy says Arie doesn’t do it right anyway. She is supposed to recite Our Father and Hail Mary and follow a path around the beads. This is why Arie hides them and waits until Izzy is asleep. Tonight, as she slips her fingers from the first round, cool bead to the next, she thinks she’ll say twenty prayers for Elizabeth. Or maybe twenty isn’t enough. Maybe she’ll pray all night until morning comes and somewhere along the way, she’ll say a prayer for Mrs. Richardson, too.
Day 3
CHAPTER EIGHT
I t came down directly from the bishop. A special dispensation, he called it. No Mass on this Sunday morning. Every parishioner was excused. The search for Elizabeth was far more important and wouldn’t the good Lord agree. Malina was certain He would.
This morning, Malina has flyers for the men to nail on lampposts and tape in store windows. Mr. Herze had one of the girls in his office make them on a machine at work—a perfect, crisp stack of one hundred flyers, one exactly like the next. A marvel, really, and a blessing in a situation such as this. With the stack tucked securely under one arm, Malina kicks open the kitchen door, the pan of butternut rolls she carries still warm. At the car, she sets the rolls and flyers on the backseat, tucks under her skirt, and stoops to her flowers.
The snapdragons have sprouted early this year. The red, yellow, and pink blossoms draw a colorful border that extends along the front of her property and follows the walkway to her front porch. She reaches into the towering plants and yanks out a dandelion, inspects the threadlike roots, sniffs them, and tosses the weed aside. Another strange smell, but this time, it has polluted her flowers. This is her third visit to the car, and with every trip, the smell grows more robust, as if gaining strength as the day heats up. Whatever the source, it’s not the roots of a dandelion.
All along Alder Avenue, wives click up and down their sidewalks because, although there is no Mass today, it’s Sunday and they feel obliged to wear their leather heels, slender skirts, and white gloves. They carry trays of fried chicken and meatloaves baked early this morning. Others carry desserts, finger foods the men can easily grab. Something sweet and frosted to lift their spirits. Directly across the street, a burst of laughter erupts and those two young girls tumble out of Julia Wagner’s front door. Oversize gardening gloves dangle from their hands. Their wiry arms and legs are bare. Once on the porch, where they must remember the block is praying for Elizabeth
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