Until She Comes Home by Lori Roy Page A

playground.
    “Good girls are quiet,” he said.
    The one behind took her arms, crushed her wrists in one hand, and covered her mouth again with the other. He pulled her arms back, grinding his body against hers. Her shoulders burned.
    The smiling one in front touched his chin, pet the small tuft growing there. A third said, “Jesus Christ,” and turned his face away because Grace’s stomach rose up at them as she arched her back. The one behind scrubbed his cheek against hers, like gritty sandpaper. One hand touched her stomach and then another. One slipped under the hem of the blouse that floated over her baby. She tasted his stale breath. The hand pulled on the elastic panel that stretched more every week. The hand was cool and wet on her skin. It lay there, not moving.
    “Jesus damn.” This man couldn’t watch. He had tired eyes. He blinked slowly, shook his head, and disappeared.
    The one behind yanked her head until she was staring into the dark rafters. Overhead, shadows folded in on themselves. That same hand slid off her mouth, pulled down over her throat, and pinched tightly so that for another moment she couldn’t inhale. It was a warning of what he could do, and then he reached through the neckline of her blouse. Mother hand-stitched the lace there. When the hand couldn’t fit, it pulled at the seam, tearing it open, tearing the lace. Jagged nails snagged her blouse. Rough, callused fingers touched her skin. Her breasts were heavier than before, heavier every day, and Mother said that meant the baby would come early. She said Grace would need to bind herself after the birth because her breasts would fill with milk and they wouldn’t have need for it.
    Falling backward, Grace’s arms flew up and she landed on her tailbone. Two hands pushed her to the ground, pinned her wrists. The darkness settled in around her. From somewhere above her, she heard their voices. Two of them. One talked of the newspaper and wondered if they would write about Grace. Would anyone care to print an article that told of what happened to her? Would the police ever come? Would they act as if it never took place? They knew that colored woman on Willingham. At the very least, knew of her, the dead woman no one talked about since Elizabeth disappeared. The dead woman who was never written about in the newspaper. The dead woman whom the police dismissed with a few questions over coffee and cigarettes. These men, this man, knew about her, and this was what he’d do to set things right.
    One of them pressed Grace’s face away, forcing her cheek into the ground. She stared into the side of one of James’s tires. The green bottle fell off the car, shattered on the garage floor. One entered her. This was what became of Elizabeth. The breathing came from behind her, above her, all around her. This was what Elizabeth last heard. He was on top of Grace, his hands planted on either side, thick cords and dark wiry hair running up his forearms. This was what Elizabeth last saw. Grace stared at the black tread. James had once shown her how to stick a penny in a tire and check that the tread was safe. She had laughed because she never did learn to drive. When they sell this house and move away because no one wants to be the last to get out, James says he’ll try again to teach her.
    “Jesus damn,” one said from somewhere far away.
    This was what happened to Elizabeth. They must have started with her and this was how they’d set things right.
    And then it is quiet.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    I nside the empty garage, Grace’s skin cools. The men are gone. Somewhere down the street, glass breaks. Then silence. She inhales, exhales—only the sound of her own breath. Next to James’s car, green glass sparkles where the moonlight hits it. His car doesn’t have the sharp angles or sparkling chrome of some of the newer models. Its back end is rounded; its nose, short and blunt. Rolling onto her side, she pulls up her knees as high as her belly will