the best cook among us, no question about that, and you brought so much food. More than your share. Let us take care of the serving. So while Julia sees to the coffee by readying two percolators, fetching the cream, and scrounging up silver tongs to accompany the box of sugar cubes, the rest of the ladies tend to a table crowded with covered casserole dishes and foil-wrapped trays. Mr. Symanski is the only man among them. He sits on a wooden chair near the kitchen, his back rigid, his feet resting on the ground.
At the bottom of the narrow stairwell leading into the basement, the first of the men appears. They were instructed to quit by ten o’clock. The police insisted. No one wants those men roaming the streets any later and giving the police more to contend with. After last night’s search, everyone agreed there was no sense looking on Alder anymore. The men, at least two to a car, were to roll through the nearby streets and call out for Elizabeth. She doesn’t like to be left alone and she doesn’t like the dark so she’ll stay near the houses with brightly lit porches. Call out that Ewa wants her to come home. She’ll believe it even though Ewa is dead.
After the first man appears, another follows and then another. Under the white lights, their skin looks gray. The ladies hurry toward the men, arms extended, and usher them to the food. The first night of the search, which went on until morning, the men had looked tired, their eyes red from squinting in the darkness, but they had all agreed daylight would bring more success. Tonight, as more men duck under the low-hanging threshold and congregate at the food table, the overhead lights throwing heavy shadows on their faces, their backs are rounded and they shake their heads from side to side. Their hope has faded.
The men stand in small groups that grow as more searchers file down the stairs and, slowly, some of the ladies abandon their serving duties and join the men. A few of the ladies suggest the bake sale be postponed, but Malina Herze says it’s too early to consider such a thing and reminds the ladies to keep those donations to the thrift store coming. Each time a new man walks down the stairs, every head turns as if the searchers and their wives are expecting some news. Arthur Jacobson, who lives well north of Alder now but still comes to Sunday services at St. Alban’s, is one of the last to walk into the basement. With hat in hand, he gestures toward the narrow windows that open out onto the parking lot above.
James Richardson and a few other men stand in the parking lot with two police officers. A streetlight shines, its yellow glow penning in the group. Even from this distance, Julia can see that James is tiring. His head hangs and he kneads his forehead with the palm of one hand. He doesn’t only have the search to cause him worry, but he must also worry after Grace and their baby. As one of the officers reaches out to show something to the group, James and the others lean in. After a few moments, they stand back, almost in tandem, and shake their heads.
A few more words are exchanged and the group breaks up, the officers walking to their patrol car while James and the other men drift toward the church entrance. The group inside the basement breaks up too. Julia returns to her coffee, where she busies herself by straightening and counting the cups and saucers. Twenty-three won’t be enough. The room where they usually hold wedding receptions and celebrations of first communion is almost full. Resting her fingertips on the table’s edge, Julia says hello to Harry Bigsby, the only man to come for coffee. She slides a cup and saucer toward him and offers him cream.
“May I get you a plate, Harry?” she says, taking his corduroy cap and brushing lint from its brim before handing it back.
“Doesn’t look good,” he says, shaking off Julia’s offer. He dips his head in thanks and walks toward the center of the room.
James Richardson is the
At the bottom of the narrow stairwell leading into the basement, the first of the men appears. They were instructed to quit by ten o’clock. The police insisted. No one wants those men roaming the streets any later and giving the police more to contend with. After last night’s search, everyone agreed there was no sense looking on Alder anymore. The men, at least two to a car, were to roll through the nearby streets and call out for Elizabeth. She doesn’t like to be left alone and she doesn’t like the dark so she’ll stay near the houses with brightly lit porches. Call out that Ewa wants her to come home. She’ll believe it even though Ewa is dead.
After the first man appears, another follows and then another. Under the white lights, their skin looks gray. The ladies hurry toward the men, arms extended, and usher them to the food. The first night of the search, which went on until morning, the men had looked tired, their eyes red from squinting in the darkness, but they had all agreed daylight would bring more success. Tonight, as more men duck under the low-hanging threshold and congregate at the food table, the overhead lights throwing heavy shadows on their faces, their backs are rounded and they shake their heads from side to side. Their hope has faded.
The men stand in small groups that grow as more searchers file down the stairs and, slowly, some of the ladies abandon their serving duties and join the men. A few of the ladies suggest the bake sale be postponed, but Malina Herze says it’s too early to consider such a thing and reminds the ladies to keep those donations to the thrift store coming. Each time a new man walks down the stairs, every head turns as if the searchers and their wives are expecting some news. Arthur Jacobson, who lives well north of Alder now but still comes to Sunday services at St. Alban’s, is one of the last to walk into the basement. With hat in hand, he gestures toward the narrow windows that open out onto the parking lot above.
James Richardson and a few other men stand in the parking lot with two police officers. A streetlight shines, its yellow glow penning in the group. Even from this distance, Julia can see that James is tiring. His head hangs and he kneads his forehead with the palm of one hand. He doesn’t only have the search to cause him worry, but he must also worry after Grace and their baby. As one of the officers reaches out to show something to the group, James and the others lean in. After a few moments, they stand back, almost in tandem, and shake their heads.
A few more words are exchanged and the group breaks up, the officers walking to their patrol car while James and the other men drift toward the church entrance. The group inside the basement breaks up too. Julia returns to her coffee, where she busies herself by straightening and counting the cups and saucers. Twenty-three won’t be enough. The room where they usually hold wedding receptions and celebrations of first communion is almost full. Resting her fingertips on the table’s edge, Julia says hello to Harry Bigsby, the only man to come for coffee. She slides a cup and saucer toward him and offers him cream.
“May I get you a plate, Harry?” she says, taking his corduroy cap and brushing lint from its brim before handing it back.
“Doesn’t look good,” he says, shaking off Julia’s offer. He dips his head in thanks and walks toward the center of the room.
James Richardson is the
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