Until She Comes Home by Lori Roy

the hammer.
    Tilting her head first to the right and then to the left, Malina reaches out with one finger and adjusts the hammer upward a quarter inch until it slips inside the black outline. Even with this adjustment, the head of the new hammer is much smaller than the head of the hammer she lost, and the outline no longer fits.
    If it weren’t for Mr. Herze’s sudden questions about her nightly driving habits, Malina wouldn’t have concerned herself so with the hammer she lost in that alley. But eventually, Mr. Herze will make his way into the garage and will notice his missing hammer with only a glance. First, he will ask Malina if she has seen the tool. Next, he’ll stomp from neighbor to neighbor, accusing them along the way. He does so hate it when people borrow his things. Eventually, he’ll think it odd his hammer disappeared so mysteriously, and he’ll give thought to something he might otherwise dismiss.
    If someone has told Mr. Herze that Malina was driving that night, perhaps the same person will tell him she carried with her a red-handled hammer. It would do no good for Mr. Herze to learn Malina was at the factory. He has never tolerated a wife who asked questions or poked about in his business. Malina learned this in the early years. And for all the years that followed, she’s remembered. If only she had gone back for the hammer or, better yet, if only she hadn’t worried so about an empty driveway and a ruined supper. If only she had gone back, there would be no proof. If only she had gone back, she would have no need for red-handled or brown-handled hammers or any type of hammer. If only she had gone back, Mr. Herze would never know for certain she had been on Willingham. He’d never know for certain she lied.
    •   •   •
    At the garage, Grace had set aside the garbage can and reached down to grab the heavy wooden door’s handle. Taking out the garbage had definitely been a sign the evening was drawing to a close. James would come home soon enough and they would go to sleep for the second night knowing Elizabeth was not yet home. With both hands wrapped firmly around the small metal handle, Grace gave a good yank, slipped her hands under the door’s bottom edge, and shoved it overhead. It was harder for her now that the baby had grown so large.
    Inside, the garage was dark. James’s car was parked in its usual spot. Howard Wallace drove him to the church, or was it Al Thompson? James had his maps to study and his notes to make. The others wanted him thinking and planning, not driving. Two silver garbage cans stood next to the car in their usual spot. She dropped a tissue over the handle of the first trash can so as to not soil her fingers. That can was full, so she dropped the silver lid, and as she lifted the second, a tissue still protecting her from the grimy handle, a hand slapped over her face.
    The hand was bare, hard, and cold. The large palm and thick fingers covered her nose and mouth, cutting off her air. She threw her head from side to side, forward and back. A body, wide and tall, forced her, stumbling, tripping, deeper inside the garage. Her lungs burned. She reached for the hand, scratching at it, tearing at it, and then someone standing in front of her grabbed her wrists.
    “Shhhh, now,” a deep voice whispered. His breath warmed her cheeks and eyes. The words rattled as if they burned the man’s throat.
    The one behind slid his hand over her mouth. She sucked air through her nose. Their scent was sour. The man who stood in front had a small beard on the tip of his chin. He was tall, taller even than James. The man drew three fingers over the beard, drawing them to a point. He set a green bottle on the trunk of James’s car. Green glass like Julia finds behind her house, like James and Grace find behind their house. He looked at Grace’s belly. Smiled, laughed maybe. Holding her by the wrists, he swung them from side to side like they were children singing on a