Until She Comes Home

Lori Roy - Author

Hardcover | $26.95 | add to cart | view cart
ISBN 9780525953968 | 352 pages | 13 Jun 2013 | Dutton Adult | 9.25 x 6.25in | 18 - AND UP
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Winner of an Edgar Award for Best First Novel for Bent Road, Lori Roy returns with Until She Comes Home, a tale of spellbinding suspense in which a pair of seemingly unrelated murders crumbles the facade of a changing Detroit neighborhood.

In 1958 Detroit, on Alder Avenue, neighbors struggle to care for neighbors amid a city ripe with conflicts that threaten their peaceful street.

Grace, Alder’s only expectant mother, eagerly awaits her first born. Best friend Julia prepares to welcome twin nieces. And Malina sets the tone with her stylish dresses, tasteful home, and ironfisted stewardship of St. Alban’s bake sale.

Life erupts when childlike Elizabeth disappears while in the care of Grace and Julia. All the ladies fear the recent murder of a black woman at the factory on Willingham Avenue where their husbands work may warn of what has become of Elizabeth, and they worry what is yet to become of Julia—the last to see Elizabeth alive.

The men mount an around-the-clock search, leaving their families vulnerable to sinister elements hidden in plain sight. Only Grace knows what happened, but her mother warns her not to tell. “No man wants to know this about his wife.” Ashamed that her silence puts loved ones in harm’s way, Grace gravitates toward the women of Willingham Avenue, who recognize her suffering as their own. Through their acceptance, Grace conquers her fear and dares to act.

On Alder Avenue, vicious secrets bind friends, neighbors, and spouses. For the wicked among them, the walk home will be long.


Malina Herze stares down on her dining-room table, her lovely dining-room table, and clutches a red-handled hammer to her chest. Her best linen, line dried and ironed this morning, still bears the round stains left by two water glasses. They sat on the table for almost four hours before Malina poured the tepid water down the drain. A highball glass still sits alongside her husband’s place setting, the ice melted and the drink inside ruined. On paydays, Mr. Herze likes a scotch and Vernors. That’s today. Payday. Every Wednesday of every week—the day he brings home the sweet, musky smell Malina has washed from his shirts for exactly one year.

That must be why, at this late hour, Malina’s driveway stands empty. It’s been one year. An anniversary, of sorts. There’s no reason Mr. Herze should stray. Malina’s waistband is looser than the last time she wore this skirt, hangs lower on her sharp hipbones. She’s not one ounce heavier than she was twenty-five years ago when she and Mr. Herze wed. He was almost thirty then; she, seventeen. He liked her the way she was—thin and slight. Don’t go changing on me, he had said. And she hasn’t. She weighs not one ounce more. No reason for Mr. Herze to stray. No good reason.

Walking from the dining room to the foyer, her white heels most probably denting the linoleum, Malina drops the hammer in her brown leather handbag, the largest of all her handbags. The tool, taken from the pegboard over Mr. Herze’s workbench, is rather heavy given its size. If called upon to defend herself with it, she may well have to use both hands. The women, Mr. Herze’s girl most certainly among them, come on payday when the men are sure to have money. They stand in the broken-out windows of the warehouse next door to the factory where all the men work. Most say the women are colored. Even now, Malina can imagine the smell of Mr. Herze’s girl as if it has come so many times into her home that it has seeped into the walls and the upholstery and the flocked drapes hanging in her living room.

In the hall mirror, Malina smooths her hair, reapplies a red lipstick suited for evening, wipes a black smudge from under one eye, and, lastly, pulls on her driving gloves. Once outside, she glances up and down Alder Avenue. Perhaps none of the neighbors have noticed the empty spot in her driveway where Mr. Herze’s car should be parked. Every night, he arrives home at 5:45 sharp. Every night, save this one, so of course, the neighbors have noticed. Even now, a few curtains ruffle where they’re peeking out to see if her husband has yet arrived home, and directly across the street that ridiculous Jerry Lawson goes so far as to wave at Malina. Clad in no more than an undershirt and boxers, the man stands at the end of his driveway, where he’s watching over that wife of his as she strolls their baby down the street and back. Nearly a month ago, Betty Lawson marched into her house, a new baby swaddled in her arms though she had never carried one in her belly. Adopted, all the neighbors had whispered. Before she suffers any further embarrassment, Malina hurries across her brittle lawn, slips into her car, and slowly, because the glare of the streetlights does so trouble her, drives toward Willingham Avenue.

Every morning, Malina and the other ladies board the bus and travel to Willingham Avenue to do their daily shopping. From the deli or the bakery or the cleaners, the ladies can look to the end of Willingham, where it dead-ends into Chamberlin Avenue in a T-junction, and see the factory where their men make a living. While dashing about, bags slung over their arms, the ladies can also see the warehouse where the colored women gather on paydays, but the ladies are afraid of what they might see there and so they cling to their wares and take only fleeting glances.

Malina rolls to a stop in front of Mr. Ambrozy’s deli and turns off the ignition. At night, under a glare that isn’t so troublesome because most of the streetlights don’t work in this section of the city, the shops have lost their foothold and seem to hover, loosely rooted, above the dark street. Next to the car, the easel where Mr. Ambrozy writes his daily specials still stands in the middle of the sidewalk. He never erased today’s specials—thick-cut chops and flank steak—and the white chalk letters are smeared as if someone drew a finger across them. Double-checking that the doors are locked, Malina rests her head against the seat, closes her eyes, and begins to count. At her last appointment, Dr. Cannon insisted this would relax her and that she need only practice the technique.

When she reaches twenty, her heartbeat has not slowed and the tightness in her throat has not softened. If she tells Dr. Cannon of this failure, he’ll say that she need only practice more often and that the failing is hers.

As expected, Mr. Herze’s car is parked in the lot next to the factory where he spends his days. While the other men labor with the tool-and-die machinery, Mr. Herze acts as their boss. The simple rust-colored brick building is surrounded by a chain-link fence that sags in some spots and is rusted through in others. The factory is hanging on, just barely, Mr. Herze sometimes says. Staring at the lone car looking more like a shadow than an automobile, Malina has no idea what she is to do now that she has found her husband. She’d had plenty of time to formulate a plan as she sat alone at her dining-room table for several hours, a supper growing cold and dry in her kitchen, the empty spot in her driveway shouting out to the neighbors, but she squandered the time with anger. It’s quite likely, in the hours, days, weeks, or months to come, she’ll remember this as her first mistake.

A dozen or so times over the years, Mr. Herze has forgotten his lunch and Malina has delivered it to him. She has always used the side door just off the parking lot when visiting Mr. Herze on those days. This is the door that opens. A person—a small, dark person— appears in the doorway. She stumbles because the door is so heavy. Malina has done the same several times. A woman, or perhaps she is still a girl. Little more than a child. Long, thin legs. Narrow hips. She wears tapered blue slacks that hug her ankles and a white blouse and is no taller than Malina, both of them childlike in size. Of course she would be small. Petite, even. Just like Malina.

Standing partly in the shadows thrown by the building and partly in the glow of the closest streetlight, the girl rights herself and tugs at the tail of her blouse. This person, this small, dark person, doesn’t glance about as if feeling guilty, and neither does she look behind as if wondering who might have followed her. Instead, she turns sharply to her left and, taking strides that appear quite long, not because she is tall but because she is slender and lean and certain of her movement, she vanishes into the shadows that hug the side of the factory. Malina reaches for the ignition, tries to throw the car into drive before she has started the engine, and fumbles with the parking brake, but she drops her hands to her lap when the girl reappears.

She moves with the same sense of purpose, or perhaps she moves with the confidence that comes from having done a thing several times before. Her back is straight and her chin is cocked high, almost as if she is proud. The girl, the small, dark girl, pushes a baby carriage. Malina falls back against the seat. The girl crosses through the parking lot, turns onto the sidewalk, and walks toward the Detroit River.

Of all things—a baby carriage.

Grabbing the leather bag from the seat next to her, Malina throws open the car door. The air here is cooler than on Alder Avenue and tinted with the smell of dead fish and damp, rotting garbage. It’s the river. During her days spent shopping on Willingham, she forgets that the river runs nearby. She should get back into her car, start up the engine, drive home, and return to her upholstered seat at the dining-room table. The veal and creamed cucumbers will be ruined by now, but she could serve them anyway because Mr. Herze does so hate waste. She knows from all her married years that if she is to walk down this street, she is putting herself in the path of a danger not even her hammer will be able to fend off. But there is a carriage, a baby carriage. She’ll be quick about it. One glimpse is all she needs. What harm could such a small person do her? Any one of the ladies would do the same.

The girl is past the factory and half a block ahead of Malina. The high-pitched squeal, rhythmic and slowly fading, must come from the carriage’s metal wheels. Reaching the sidewalk and falling into the girl’s wake, Malina stops, can’t help herself, because the scent lingers—the same sweet, musky smell Malina had pulled from her hamper on every payday of every week for exactly one year. Up ahead, just past the factory, the girl turns right and is gone. Malina hugs her handbag so the hammer doesn’t knock about and follows.

Malina has never ventured this far south, has never had cause. When she reaches the spot where the girl disappeared, she stops. The familiar shops are behind her now; ahead, an unfamiliar street that eventually empties into the Detroit River. Keeping her feet on the sidewalk, she tips forward and looks down the dark alley that runs along the factory’s southern edge. She squints, leans farther. Still no sign of the girl. Here again, she should turn around. If not for that empty driveway, an embarrassment like none other except perhaps a baby carriage, she would run back to her car, head down, hoping not to be recognized and, despite the terrible glare, drive as quickly as she could back to the house. So many years of carefully grooming herself to behave just-so. Supper at six, breakfast at seven, shirts hung on only wooden hangers, collars lightly starched, newspaper untouched until Mr. Herze has his turn at it. The list goes on. When she was younger, she wrote down these things and checked off each reminder with a freshly sharpened pencil. After so many years, she should no longer need reminders.

One deep breath propels her. She steps from the sidewalk into the alley. A cool draft sweeps past. The sound of the squeaky wheels has faded. There is the quiet slapping of the river water and then a woman’s voice breaks through the night air and then another answers her. They are muted, as if coming from behind a closed door. There must be another building at the end of the alley, perhaps where the girl lives. So many of them do that now—live in abandoned buildings as if they haven’t anywhere else to go.

There is the squeal again. Warped metal wheels, wobbling, struggling in the alley’s soft, dry dirt. A carriage. Obviously a baby inside. A caramel-colored baby. Mr. Herze is soft and white, pasty white, with hair that was once blond but now is a thinning ridge that runs ear to ear leaving the top of his head bare. The girl, however, as far as Malina could tell, is dark brown. The baby would be a soft, warm color, somewhere between their two shades. Malina takes a backward step, lets her arms hang at her sides.

Mr. Herze’s baby?

She thinks again of the smudged easel. Like the muffled voices, the easel is a reminder that people are here, somewhere nearby. She slides one foot in front of the other, forcing herself into the alley. Dust will be gathering on her shoes. When she gets back home, she must remember to clean them with a damp cloth. Unsnapping the kiss-clasp on her brown leather bag, she pulls out the hammer and wraps both hands around the red handle.

A few more steps and Malina has walked beyond the reach of the streetlights. The only remaining light comes from a window in the factory’s second story. It’s little more than a yellow pane that does nothing to brighten her path. It’s Mr. Herze’s office. It must be. Holding the hammer as if it were the handle of a frying pan, she follows the girl’s path. The air continues to cool. It dries the damp spot on the back of her neck where her thick hair meets her lace collar. The steady pulse of the river follows her, growing no louder, no softer. She must see inside that carriage, has a right to see inside that carriage.

“And who the hell you think you be?”

Squeezing the hammer in both hands, Malina lifts it overhead and swings it toward the voice. The heavy forked head sails through the empty air, missing its target and yanking her off balance. She stumbles, drops her only weapon.

The woman who stands in front of Malina is plump. She has round, black cheeks and her eyes must be brown, although there isn’t enough light to know for sure. She stands Malina’s height but is much wider. It is not the girl. Malina leans toward the dark figure, squints to make certain. If she wanted, she could stretch out one hand and touch the woman’s face. To avoid the temptation, Malina crosses her arms. This one is not like a child at all, but like a woman. A round, rotund woman. Her stubby legs are planted wide and her back is straight. She leads with her chin as she bends forward, puckers her lips, and stares at Malina.

“Damn,” the woman shouts. Her breath is sweet, like a half- eaten peppermint.

From the end of the alley, another voice calls out. “What you all doing down there?”

Malina inches away. Her white cotton blouse clings to her back and her hair has most certainly wilted. The round woman stares. Her black cheeks and thick upper lip glisten.

“I know who you are,” the woman says, smiling, perhaps even laughing at Malina. “Bet you’re wondering what’s inside that carriage.”

Malina shakes her head, takes a few more backward steps, spins around, and hurries down the alley.

“Hey,” the woman shouts. “Where you going? You forgot your damn hammer.”

Praise for Until She Comes Home

"A quietly shocking novel." - The New York Times Book Review 

"Roy makes every detail count as she builds her characters and gently but inexorably leads them to reexamine their own lives. What seems to begin in the glowing warmth of a homey kitchen transforms into a probing emotional drama that speaks powerfully to women about family, prejudice, power...and secrets." - Booklist (starred review)

"Lori Roy has entered the arena of great American authors shared by Williams, Faulkner and Lee." - Bookreporter

"A beautifully written, at times lyrical, study" - Kirkus (starred review)

"Roy's troubling novel leaves readers guessing until the end." -Library Journal

"Roy has created a tour-de-force of mood and suspense...Seeing the marvels she can create with words, we can only hope she'll continue to share her talent with readers." - Bookpage

"This is a superb, tense suspense tale that's one of the year's best crime novels." - Lansing State Journal

“Roy delivers a timeless story that gives shape to those secrets and tragedies from which some people never recover.” – Sun Sentinel

“I was blown away by Ms. Roy's writing style. Days after finishing this novel, I'm still thinking about how well l she brought the setting and characters to life.” – Booking Mama (Blog)

“Roy’s language pulses with so much subtle tension…Days after finishing this, the lives of these women still haunted me.” – Milwaukee Journal Sentinel

“[Roy] is not suffering from sophomore slump — Until She Comes Home is a suspenseful, atmospheric work of crime fiction as well as a clear-eyed look at relationships between the sexes and the races in mid 20th century America.” – Tampa Bay Times

Meg Gardiner, Edgar Award Winning author of The Shadow Tracer, Interviews Lori Roy

Meg: In your novels secrets are rife, and corrosive. Blame, guilt, and shame eat at your characters. Much of the suspense arises from wondering who deserves that blame—for awful, desperate crimes—and whose secrets will be exposed. Who’s going to suffer, who’s going to punish others, and how violent will it be? The books have a thrumming, nerve-tightening tension, a sense that confrontations are inevitably building toward explosion. My question: How do you tighten the screws so effectively? What’s your secret?

The only thing I can say with certainty is that I have no secret. As you know, as every writer knows, it’s all about putting our fingers to our keyboards. I do believe the most crucial ingredient to great suspense is building great characters. I work hard to create well-rounded characters who will linger with the reader. The more attached we are to the characters in the books we read, the more we will be invested in what happens to them and the greater the suspense.

Death and the threat of violent destruction haunt the families in your novels. But—especially in Until She Comes Home—the police are a marginal presence. Their appearance in a neighborhood signals fear and disruption. Is there a reason you keep the cops at the edge of the story?

Many great writers are out there writing novels that are focused on the investigation, and I know that structure is not in my strike zone. As my plotlines unfold, in a slow and messy fashion, I find myself more interested in the struggles of the people impacted by the crime and less interested in the investigation. I am drawn to writing about good people, average people who are thrown into an extraordinary event. It’s through these events that I force my characters to make decisions and take actions that will define them. This is what interests me as a writer and what will hold my attention for the many months and years I spend with a novel.

Until She Comes Home is set in 1958. Your Edgar-winning debut, Bent Road, is set in 1967. What drew you to write about those times?

I always struggle to answer this question. The obvious advantages to setting a story in the past are that a writer avoids the technology of today, but that’s not what draws me to the past. While many things have changed over the years, the significant things have not. I am fascinated as I write my stories to find that those who lived long struggled with the same things we struggle with today. People fell in love then as they do today. They argued, reconciled, felt loneliness, felt joy, felt fear, just as they do today. As a writer, seeing this bridge across the decades reinforces that despite our differences—be it the era in which we live, where we live, our sex, our race, our wealth—we’re not so different after all.

Why Detroit? Bent Road features a family that has fled the city for the supposed sanctuary of the Kansas family farm. Until She Comes Home takes place in Detroit a decade earlier, when social earthquakes are beginning to shift the ground beneath the story’s middle class, white, mostly blue collar neighborhood. You’re from Kansas, and live in Florida. What drew you to write about the Motor City?

All my work begins with setting. It’s the first thing that inspires me. I like a gritty setting that will press down on my characters and add to their struggles. When researching Bent Road, which features a family who flees Detroit in the wake of the 1967 riots, I did a great deal of research about Detroit and immediately fell in love with the city. Even before finishing Bent Road, I knew my next novel would be set in Detroit.

Your novels bring the ’50s and ’60s vibrantly alive, almost as though those decades are right here, just within reach. You’re clearly too young to have grown up in those times—how did you bring them to life?

I do quite a bit of research before I begin writing a novel, but not the type of research that includes dates and names and places, although I do some of that, too. I spend time soaking up the era through vintage catalogs, newspapers, cook books, home movies and novels written during the time. These types of sources give great insight into the language and tone of whatever year I am exploring. I found the cook books and catalogs of particular help in writing Until She Comes Home because the novel features three women who place great importance on their home and their appearance. While browsing the pages of a catalog, I could imagine one of my characters slipping her feet into the sensible pumps with the two-inch heels pictured on page 194 of the 1958 Sears Catalog or grinding her meat with the cast-iron meat grinder found on page 1180. I believe these small things, these common items, bring an era to life and at the same time, build character.

Where did the idea for Until She Comes Home originate? How did you develop your initial thoughts into such a suspenseful story, set in such richly drawn world?

Other than the city of Detroit, a pair of white gloves first inspired me. I imagined a world where, if a handbag hung from a woman’s arm, she wore a pair of white gloves. I imagined a woman who boarded a bus one morning along with all the other ladies. The woman realized she had forgotten her gloves. Something tragic had happened that made her forget. As she rode the bus to Willingham Avenue where she would do her daily shopping, the woman was ashamed, hid her hands in her lap. What had happened to this woman to make her forget her white gloves?

Your novels are complex—they’re as much about family, community, and social strictures as they are about catching murderers. Did you always want to write crime/mystery/suspense? As you wrote Until She Comes Home, did you even think of it as writing a mystery?

As I work, I think primarily about writing the book I want to read and not so much about the genre. I want to read a book that has great characters, an engaging voice, subtle themes and haunting settings, but I also want a plot that will make me turn the pages late into the night. I find myself writing to uncover what happened as opposed to deciding what will happen. It’s a frustrating process that is often derailed by my characters so that I must cut, rewrite, reorganize, and try again.

You were once an accountant. How did you make the transition to writing? Do you ever miss adding for a living?

Let me first say that I do not miss adding for a living. At a cocktail party, no one wants to talk to the accountant. (My apologies to the accountants as I would be happy to talk with you.) I left the corporate world when my first child was about three years old. I wanted to stay home with him and I also wanted to continue to build a career for myself. This is when I started writing. I worked on my own for several years, attended a few writers conferences where I met some writer friends, and after writing for about eight years, I sat down to write Bent Road. It’s worth saying again…I do not miss adding for a living.

The night you won the Edgar for Best First Novel, you were gracious and eloquent, but looked like you’d been jabbed with a stun gun. What do you recall from that evening? How have things changed for you in the last year?

The Edgars was a lovely event. I shared it with my editor, Denise Roy, my agent, Jenny Bent, many fine folks from Dutton and with you and your husband. I remember shaking hands with Mary Higgins Clark as she handed me the Edgar. I remember hoping my hose didn’t run. I remember the champagne was pink. But mostly I remember slipping on my Levis and Converse after the festivities were over, walking the streets of Manhattan with my husband and buying a hot dog from a street vendor. It was the greatest hot dog ever. As to how life has changed…I’m a bit busier, I travel a bit more, I pack a bit lighter, but the writing is the same. I do it every day, if only for a few minutes. It’s all about the next book.

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