I started to dial—and then hung up. What would Mike say to me, half in pity? No habeas corpus, no crime. Bill wouldn’t go running to the cops, not before he had proof. I knew what I had to do—go back to the house and find something concrete.
I sighed as I changed out of my dress and back into my Rosie the Riveter dungarees.
Downstairs on India Street, the day was just winding down. People were heading toward the Waterfront Bar to have some beers. Sailors three and four together were laughing and talking too loud. The driving beat of “String of Pearls” pulsed from a radio. A newsie announced, “Allies take Salerno! Get yer late edition here!” I bought one and tucked it under my arm.
The iron monger rode down the street in his old buggy with the run-down nag, calling, “Rags, iron, any old iron!” Mr. Papadopoulos from the Greek cafe came running out of the house with an armful of rusty Model T parts.
A streetcar jangled up the tracks and I ran to catch it. “That’ll be a nickel, lady.”
I pulled out my coin purse. “Transfer, please,” I said.
“Okay, Rosie.”
I read the headlines while holding on to a canvas strap as the car swayed and bounced. One man, seeing my amateurish clinging, vacated his seat and with a patriotic salute waved me to it. I smiled and settled in to read the paper.
That night, before I allowed myself to lie down on the narrow bed, I again pushed the suitcase against the door. My mind sparked with thoughts, like men flicking cigarettes in a dark room. I tossed and turned, and as the first hints of dawn came through the edges of the blackout curtains, I dropped into a leaden sleep.
I had breakfast with Nancy in the musty dining room—three cups of coffee and a heel of bread with a scraping of margarine on it. We were the last ones at the table and Mrs. Smith was looking at us balefully. As soon as we began to slide our chairs away from the table she pounced on it like a vulture and began to clear it off.
“Come with me,” said Nancy, leading me to a back door and down a short flight of steps to the backyard. The yard was still in full summer dress, even thought it was September. A profusion of datura and morning glory tumbled over the back fence. Arches and paths ran around rosebushes heavy with nodding blooms; day lilies, carnations, and lobelia grew out of cracks, and paths of wood chips and slate stones wound round lush lawns.
“Oh, Nancy, this is beautiful! A secret garden! It’s like being in another world.” My previous trip through the garden had been too brief and panicked to notice much. I twirled around and around, enchanted and bewitched by all the flowers and vines. The scent of jasmine and roses and blooming cacti filled the air and swaying grasses danced with towering blue delphiniums. Bright orange canna lilies stood tall.
Nancy stepped under a bower of bougainvillea and grape vines and came out with a battered cardboard box. I ran up to see a tiny brown puppy with black spots on his back and big floppy ears.
“I got him yesterday. He’s part beagle and part lab. And he’s all mine.” She pulled out a greasy paper bag containing pieces of last night’s dinner and this morning’s bread and fed it to the puppy, who whimpered and then chowed down like he was starving. “His name’s Spot! Here, you take him and I’ll put on his leash,” she said.
He was soft, warm, and wiggly as I held him. I looked skeptically at the length of cord she was attaching to his collar. When she was done, I put Spot down and he ran in circles around her, tangling her feet with the rope. She tried to step out of it, tripped, and sprawled on the ground. The little dog took off and we tried to catch him. He thought it was a game and kept on running, then stopped abruptly, sitting, tongue out. He caught a new smell, lifted and twisted his head, ears swinging, and suddenly took off again.
“Oh no! If Mrs. Smith catches me with Spot, I’m ruined,” wailed Nancy. “It’s just I’m so lonely here and the beggar boy said his papa was gonna drown the whelp, so I had to take him.”
I was scanning the yard, looking for the little dog, dreading discovery by the landlady, when I saw him digging busily in a pile of dirt in the far corner. I trotted over there and scooped him up, then looked at where he’d been digging. For a small dog, he’d pawed pretty deep into the dirt pile. I saw something white and angular sticking out. A horrible idea formed in my head, but I didn’t want Nancy involved. I knelt down and swept dirt over the object.
“Here he is, safe and sound,” I said, and handed Spot back to her. “Let’s get going, we don’t want to be late for work.”
Nancy stashed Spot in his box and we ran for the bus.
I spent the day pacing back and forth in the office, working up my courage. I had to go back and see if my suspicions were true. The white thing in the dirt looked like a bone, and not a soup bone, either. I was terribly afraid that I’d found Mary, dead in the backyard.
I taped several layers of newspaper onto the lens of a flashlight and took it into the closet to see how well it worked. It gave off a sickly light, just barely enough to see by, and I hoped not enough to violate the dim-out regulations—or be noticed by the Smiths.
Five o’clock found me back on the bus, heading up the hill to 20th Street. I was so nervous that I could barely hold up my end of a conversation, but the other girls had enough silly chatter that no one noticed. I got ready for bed like everyone else, but then changed back into my dungarees and shirt and lay silently on the bed waiting for the darkness to be complete. The sap was in my back pocket, and I could feel it pressing into my behind. By eleven o’clock it was pitch black out and I couldn’t hear anyone moving in the house. It was time for me to get to work.
I grabbed my shoes and carried them as I slid my feet slowly over the wooden floor. The door opened with a tiny noise, and I paused there for several minutes until I was sure I hadn’t woken anyone. I crept down the stairs, staying close to the wall to keep the steps from creaking as I gently lowered my weight onto them. I glided through the kitchen and eased myself out the back door.
The garden was fragrant in the night, and the air was cool. A car ghosted past with only its running lights on. I sat in the damp grass and slipped on my shoes, then walked back to the corner and felt my way over to the dirt pile. I turned on the flashlight and laid it in the dirt angled downward. I found the hollow I’d partly filled in and began digging. The dirt was sandy and moist in my hands. I carefully brushed it sideways until I saw the bone. A dainty triangle of bone, a fingertip, still attached to the next joint by tendons. As I excavated further, I saw shards of flesh clinging to the bones. The smell of decay was overpowering. I felt sick to my stomach and lurched off to one side and threw up.
I brushed the dirt back over the remains of the small hand, picked up my flashlight, switched it off, and walked
