Symanski’s safe return, the twins silence themselves, walk down the stairs to the front yard, kneel on the sidewalk that leads to the street, and begin to pull weeds.
It’s been the same since the twins were three years old. Early every summer, Bill Wagner pulls in the drive in time for supper and two girls crawl out of his backseat. When they were younger, they would wear sweet plaid dresses with puffed sleeves and Peter Pan collars. Wearing a full bib apron, Julia would greet them and kiss each on top of her head. But this year, instead of lace-trimmed dresses worn thin at the seams, the girls wear matching navy shorts and blue-and-white striped blouses. Malina didn’t get a good look at the one she saw last night because it was too dark, but this morning, it’s apparent they’ve grown up in the past year. They’ve let their red hair grow well beyond their shoulders and their cheeks have thinned out. It’s also apparent their skin is a darker shade. Obviously they are allowed to play outside unattended for hours each day. Their legs, too, are changed. They are longer, thinner. Their hips, straight and narrow. Their arms, slender, even frail. They could almost be mistaken for young women.
If not for the color of their hair, they could almost be mistaken for Malina.
At the sound of her own front door opening, Malina pushes back on her knees. Mr. Herze’s hard-soled shoes hit the wooden porch. The screen door slaps shut. Staring across the street, most probably at those two girls, Mr. Herze mops his forehead with a white kerchief. He is already suffering though the day has yet to heat up. Malina greets him with a wave and lifts a forearm to wipe the perspiration from her top lip, but stops short of touching herself because that smell has grown stronger. It’s urine. She’s smelling urine.
“I’m making a mushroom soufflé this evening,” she says, staring down at her bare hands. Someone has urinated on her flowers. “I hope you’ll be able to make it home for supper. These long days will take their toll.”
Without bothering to lock the front door, Mr. Herze marches across the porch and stomps down the stairs and toward the street. “Not in my yard, Jerry Lawson,” he shouts.
Malina stands, holding her arms out to her sides so as not to touch herself with soiled hands, and looks for what has drawn Mr. Herze’s attention. It’s Jerry Lawson, coming at them from across the street. He wears blue-and-white broadcloth boxers and a V-neck cotton undershirt. At the curb, Mr. Herze stops, stretches his shoulders back, which causes his large stomach to jut out, and lifts a flattened palm toward Jerry, who is fast approaching.
“Don’t you come any closer,” Mr. Herze says.
Jerry stops in the middle of the street. His lower jaw is gray with a heavy shadow. His undershirt is untucked; his boxers, rumpled. He wears only stockings on his feet. Across the street, the twins have disappeared inside. Jerry reaches out to Mr. Herze, not to shake hands, but as if he wants to brace himself on Mr. Herze’s arm.
“What is a man if he doesn’t have a job?” Jerry says.
Mr. Herze yanks Jerry toward him until they are standing close enough to whisper. Mr. Herze does most of the talking, though Malina can’t hear what is being said. He points toward the Lawsons’ home and shakes his head a few times.
“Wait,” Jerry shouts when Mr. Herze begins to walk away.
Mr. Herze stops, exhales, and circles back.
Jerry points at Malina, directly at Malina, and takes one step toward her.
“She knows,” he says. “Mrs. Herze knows.”
Malina slides next to the car, putting it between her and Jerry. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“You saw me,” Jerry says.
Mr. Herze jams a hand in the center of Jerry’s chest, preventing him from moving any closer to Malina.
“Tell him,” Jerry says. “Tell him you saw me from your car. I waved at you and you waved back.”
Malina leans into the sedan, not at all
It’s been the same since the twins were three years old. Early every summer, Bill Wagner pulls in the drive in time for supper and two girls crawl out of his backseat. When they were younger, they would wear sweet plaid dresses with puffed sleeves and Peter Pan collars. Wearing a full bib apron, Julia would greet them and kiss each on top of her head. But this year, instead of lace-trimmed dresses worn thin at the seams, the girls wear matching navy shorts and blue-and-white striped blouses. Malina didn’t get a good look at the one she saw last night because it was too dark, but this morning, it’s apparent they’ve grown up in the past year. They’ve let their red hair grow well beyond their shoulders and their cheeks have thinned out. It’s also apparent their skin is a darker shade. Obviously they are allowed to play outside unattended for hours each day. Their legs, too, are changed. They are longer, thinner. Their hips, straight and narrow. Their arms, slender, even frail. They could almost be mistaken for young women.
If not for the color of their hair, they could almost be mistaken for Malina.
At the sound of her own front door opening, Malina pushes back on her knees. Mr. Herze’s hard-soled shoes hit the wooden porch. The screen door slaps shut. Staring across the street, most probably at those two girls, Mr. Herze mops his forehead with a white kerchief. He is already suffering though the day has yet to heat up. Malina greets him with a wave and lifts a forearm to wipe the perspiration from her top lip, but stops short of touching herself because that smell has grown stronger. It’s urine. She’s smelling urine.
“I’m making a mushroom soufflé this evening,” she says, staring down at her bare hands. Someone has urinated on her flowers. “I hope you’ll be able to make it home for supper. These long days will take their toll.”
Without bothering to lock the front door, Mr. Herze marches across the porch and stomps down the stairs and toward the street. “Not in my yard, Jerry Lawson,” he shouts.
Malina stands, holding her arms out to her sides so as not to touch herself with soiled hands, and looks for what has drawn Mr. Herze’s attention. It’s Jerry Lawson, coming at them from across the street. He wears blue-and-white broadcloth boxers and a V-neck cotton undershirt. At the curb, Mr. Herze stops, stretches his shoulders back, which causes his large stomach to jut out, and lifts a flattened palm toward Jerry, who is fast approaching.
“Don’t you come any closer,” Mr. Herze says.
Jerry stops in the middle of the street. His lower jaw is gray with a heavy shadow. His undershirt is untucked; his boxers, rumpled. He wears only stockings on his feet. Across the street, the twins have disappeared inside. Jerry reaches out to Mr. Herze, not to shake hands, but as if he wants to brace himself on Mr. Herze’s arm.
“What is a man if he doesn’t have a job?” Jerry says.
Mr. Herze yanks Jerry toward him until they are standing close enough to whisper. Mr. Herze does most of the talking, though Malina can’t hear what is being said. He points toward the Lawsons’ home and shakes his head a few times.
“Wait,” Jerry shouts when Mr. Herze begins to walk away.
Mr. Herze stops, exhales, and circles back.
Jerry points at Malina, directly at Malina, and takes one step toward her.
“She knows,” he says. “Mrs. Herze knows.”
Malina slides next to the car, putting it between her and Jerry. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“You saw me,” Jerry says.
Mr. Herze jams a hand in the center of Jerry’s chest, preventing him from moving any closer to Malina.
“Tell him,” Jerry says. “Tell him you saw me from your car. I waved at you and you waved back.”
Malina leans into the sedan, not at all
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