All That's Missing (21 page)

“Mama Reel wants to know if you can come for lunch,” Maywood said.

Arlo looked at his grandmother.

“It was nice of Aurelia to invite you,” she said. “We already talked about it this morning. I told her you'd love to come.”

Arlo didn't really appreciate people planning his life without consulting him, but he guessed he didn't mind having lunch with Maywood's other grandmother. Maywood talked about Mama Reel constantly. In a way, he was anxious to meet her.

Ida kept on talking. “I scheduled a meeting with my lawyer,” she said. “Nathan and I have some business to tend to, so this works out perfectly.”

“What do you need to see Mr. Tretheway about?” Maywood asked.

“Well, Miss Nosy, I suppose that's for me to know, isn't it?” Ida gave Maywood a sharp look.

Arlo stifled a laugh. He kept his eyes focused on the pennies at the bottom of the fountain. Maybe Ida was getting advice about how Arlo could move in with her. Or maybe she was trying to figure out how to get out of buying that condo in Richmond.

“I'll pick you up after my meeting,” Ida was saying. “Run on, now, and have a good time.” She made a shooing motion with her hand.

On their way through the bookstore, they passed a tall man with curly brown hair who was sorting index cards behind the counter.

“You must be Arlo,” he said, stretching out a hand.

“That's my dad,” Maywood said.

“Lucius Stonestreet,” the man said. “I think you've met my mother.”

Arlo appreciated the way Lucius offered an apologetic smile when he mentioned Augusta Stonestreet, as if he recognized, as well as everybody else, what a character she was.

“Nice to meet you,” Arlo said, reaching across the counter to shake hands.

“Where's Mom?” Maywood asked.

“She had a meeting with a couple of grad students,” Lucius said. “She'll be home this evening. Mama Reel's up there waiting for you.”

“We're on our way,” Maywood said.

Arlo followed her to a staircase at the back of the store. They climbed the stairs to a small balcony where there were two desks positioned opposite each other and a copy machine.

“This way,” Maywood said, leading him through a narrow door that opened onto the atrium. To their left was the yellow door. Maywood opened it up and stepped inside.

Arlo found himself in a small kitchen with sliding glass doors that opened onto a roof garden. Beyond the kitchen was a large open room with brick walls on either side and windows across the front. The walls were covered with oil paintings in bold colors.

“She'll be outside,” Maywood said. She slid open the glass door and stepped onto a wooden deck, dodging giant pots of ferns on the way. Mama Reel stood in front of an easel, squinting at the turret on the building across the street. She was a tiny woman with closely cropped gray hair and dark skin.

“So, you're Arlo,” she said.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“I'm Aurelia Pridemore. Maywood's grandmother. I'd offer to shake your hand, but I'm afraid there's paint on it.”

“That's OK.”

Mama Reel put down her brush. She was barely taller than Arlo, but her presence seemed to fill the space around them. Her voice was strong and gentle, like water lapping at the shore. She wore a long skirt of orange and white with yellow swirls and a loose cotton sweater with a scarf tied around her neck.

“Come over here, so I can have a look at you,” she said.

Her eyes were quick and lively. She examined Arlo from head to toe, then uttered a grunt of approval. “You've got a little from both sides of the family, haven't you?”

Poppo always said Arlo looked more like the Sabatinis than the Joneses, but Arlo had never had the chance to judge for himself, not aside from those few photographs in the album.

“It's good you're here . . .
at last.
”

Arlo braced himself for another scolding about not having visited earlier.

“Ida's waited a long time,” she said.

“Yes, ma'am. I know.”

“A child can't make up for the mistakes grown-ups make, now, can he?”

Arlo looked up at her.

Mama Reel gave him a nod. “You can't help the bad blood between the Sabatinis and the Joneses,” she said. “‘It was pride that changed angels into devils.'”

“Excuse me?”

“She's quoting again,” Maywood said.

“That's right, child. And who is the wise person who said that?”

“Socrates?” Maywood guessed.

“No,” Mama Reel said.

“Martin Luther King?”

“Two good guesses, but that's not right, either.”

“I give up.” Maywood plopped into one of the cast-iron chairs around the glass-topped table.

“Saint Augustine,” Mama Reel said. “And here's the rest of it: ‘It is humility that makes men as angels.'”

Arlo had no idea what she was talking about, but it was a relief not to be blamed for Poppo not bringing him to see Ida sooner. “I wish I knew why they were so mad at each other,” he said.

Mama Reel shifted her gaze toward the turret on the old building. “It's not my place to tell you that. You'll need to talk to Ida.” She paused, then turned her eyes to him. “I
will
say this,” she began, “once they traveled down that road, it was mighty hard to turn back. Neither one of them was willing to admit they'd been wrong.”

It was easy to see how Ida wouldn't admit she was wrong, and Arlo supposed that Poppo could be the same way, especially when it came to forgiving someone who'd been critical of Arlo's mother.

“You must be hungry,” Mama Reel said, suddenly changing the subject. “Plates are in the refrigerator. You don't mind if we sit outside and enjoy the breezes, do you?”

“No, ma'am,” Arlo said.

“Come on,” Maywood said.

Arlo held the door open while Maywood slid the plates off the middle shelf. She handed one to Arlo and carried the other two herself. They came back outside and ducked under the broad umbrella rising from the center of the glass-top table. Maywood pushed aside a large art book to make room for the plates.

“Careful you don't lose my place, child.”

“What's this book about?” Maywood turned the cover over so she could read the title.
Masters of African-American Art.

“Your mother is doing research on a man named Solomon Brokenberry. The museum in Richmond is opening an exhibit in the spring. They asked her to give a talk.”

“These pictures look old.” Maywood paged through the book.

“Not that old, as museum paintings go. Brokenberry died in 1933. You're related to him way far back. His mother was from around here. She was your great-great-great-great-granddaddy's first cousin.”

Arlo looked over Maywood's shoulder. On the right side of the page was a color plate that showed three children standing in front of a large tree.

“That one's a portrait of a family in Normandy. Brokenberry spent most of his life in France. It offered more opportunity for black artists.”

An object in the corner of the painting caught Arlo's eye. “Are those berries?” he asked.

“They are.” Mama Reel gave Arlo a curious look.

“They're just sort of hidden there in the corner.”

“That's right.”

Arlo frowned. “Why?” he asked.

“Turn the page.” Mama Reel gestured at the book with a knobby finger.

Arlo did as she directed.

“Now look at the next one,” she said.

There was the same symbol, tucked in with a jumble of objects behind a chair. Arlo pointed to it.

“That's right. Now try the next one.”

Arlo kept turning the pages. The berries were in every one of Brokenberry's paintings.

“Those two stems of red berries were his hallmark,” Mama Reel said. She came over and sat beside Arlo. “You have a discerning eye,” she said. “That's a gift.” She flipped back three pages and pointed to the portrait of a man standing in front of a bookcase filled with leather-bound books. In the man's right hand was a rolled-up map.

“Art scholars believe that that man was Brokenberry's grandfather,” Mama Reel said. “No one knows for sure. There's a document in a courthouse somewhere that says his granddaddy was a white man. That much seems certain. We also know that his mama escaped on the Underground Railroad.”

“How do they know that?”

Mama Reel smiled. “Family history,” she said. My great-granddaddy told me that story, and he heard it from his great-grandmother. There are records from an old plantation proving it was true.”

“Will we see the exhibit?” Maywood asked.

“We most certainly will,” Mama Reel said. “And maybe Arlo would like to come with us.”

“I don't know if I'll still be here,” Arlo said.

“Mmmm-hmmmm.” Mama Reel looked down over her glasses as she closed the book. “Something tells me you'll be here, all right, but don't ask me how I know.”

Arlo felt a twinge. What about Poppo and Sam? A week ago, he wouldn't have considered living with Ida for one minute. But things were changing. She was becoming less prickly, though she still had her moments.

“How are you and Ida getting along, anyway?” Mama Reel asked.

It was as if Arlo's thoughts were being telegraphed directly into her brain.

“Ida's been on her own nearly seven years now,” Mama Reel continued. “A person is likely to get set in her ways.”

Arlo thought about the underwear hanging on the line in the basement and the cans of sardines in the pantry. “It was a little hard at first,” he said, “but we're doing OK now.”

Mama Reel covered up a smile with a paint-smeared hand. “Did your grandfather talk about her much when you were growing up?” she asked.

“Not really.”

“Didn't figure he would.”

“Poppo says Ida and my mom didn't get along.”

Mama Reel laughed. “You can say that again.”

“Ida says my mom's the reason my dad never finished college.” Arlo watched for her reaction.

Mama Reel stared at the open page of the book as if she was trying to avoid making eye contact. Arlo figured she was trying to hide her reaction.

“The truth's not quite that cut-and-dried,” she said. “But that's not
my
story to tell.”

After lunch, Arlo and Maywood walked up and down the public beach. They gathered bits of driftwood and studied the osprey's nest on top of an old bridge piling.

“Where's the bird?” Arlo asked.

“Gone south for the winter,” Maywood said. “They'll be back in the spring.”

“They?”

“There's a pair of them who have a nest on that piling. They come back every spring.”

Arlo told her about the osprey that he and Ida had seen.

“Must have been a straggler,” Maywood said. “They're usually gone by the middle of September.”

After thanking Mama Reel for lunch, Arlo walked downstairs to the bookstore to meet Ida.

“How was your afternoon?” Ida asked.

“Nice,” Arlo said. “Mama Reel sent you this.” He offered up the plastic container filled with chicken salad.

“Lovely.” Ida closed her eyes. “That will be dinner,” she said. “For me, anyway. I have crab cakes for you.”

“Where's Steamboat?” Arlo asked.

“Waiting at home.”

It wasn't until they had crossed the creek at the marina that Arlo realized calling the house in Edgewater
home
hadn't felt the least bit uncomfortable. He must be getting used to the idea.

Two days later, when Maywood was out of school for Columbus Day, she and Arlo were playing cards in the tree house when they overheard Augusta and Ida quarreling below.

“They're at it again,” Maywood said, leaning over the edge. Arlo scooted over beside her, letting his head extend just far enough to catch what they were saying.

“I've given the matter considerable thought,” Augusta said, “and I've decided you should plan on taking Steamboat with you.”

“No pets allowed, Augusta. I told you that.”

Augusta tapped her finger on the glass-top table. “Then we're back to my first piece of advice, Ida. Cancel the contract. Tell them you've changed your mind.”

“You know I can't do that. It wouldn't be honorable.”

“Phooey. You don't worry about honor when you're dealing with developers.”

“I always worry about being honorable in my business dealings,” said Ida.

“Developers!” Augusta let out a hoot of disapproval. “A fancy name for
thieves
is more like it. Have you talked to Nathan yet?”

“We met on Saturday,” Ida said.

“Did you talk about Arlo?”

“Well, of course we talked about Arlo.”

“And?”

“He wanted me to talk to Albert first.”

“Who's Albert?”