All That's Missing (33 page)

When Arlo walked in the house, he found Ida sitting on the floor in the dining room, going through photos in a green cardboard box. He remembered seeing that box up in the attic. It had been on the middle of a set of built-in shelves in the space above Ida's bedroom. Ida had three photographs spread out in front of her. Arlo pointed to the one in the middle, a picture of his father wearing the blue sweater — the same picture he'd seen in the album back home.

“I'd forgotten I still had this,” Ida said, handing it to him. “It was taken right after you were born.”

Arlo stared at the picture.

“There's a resemblance, you know,” she said. “That spot in your left eyebrow.”

Arlo touched the thin spot on his forehead. “Can I ask you something?” he said.

“Go ahead,” Ida whispered. Her eyes were misty.

“How come you never came to see us?”

She blinked, then leaned down and gathered up the photographs, tucking them into the pocket of her sweater.

“I tried,” she said without turning around. “After Slocum died, I tried to see you a number of times.”

“How come I don't remember that?” Arlo asked. He knew he was being hard on her, but he deserved answers, didn't he?

When Ida turned around to face him, her cheeks were pink. Water pooled in her eyes. “Albert wouldn't allow me to see you,” she said.

Arlo couldn't help noticing little prickles of anger creeping up his spine. It happened every time she criticized his grandfather.

“Poppo wouldn't do that.”

Ida sighed. “I understand why you feel that way. But, the fact is, he
did
do that. Augusta and I drove all the way to Marshboro once. When we got there, Albert refused to let me see you.”

Arlo stared at her. “But where was I?” he said.

“At school,” she said, her voice cracking on the word
school.

“Why would Poppo do that?”

Ida pulled the tissue from her pocket and blotted her eyes. “You have to understand,” she said. “Albert was hurt. And angry. And he needed someone to blame.”

“Blame for what?” Arlo asked.

Tears spilled onto her cheeks. “For losing your mother.” She walked over to the window and stood there a long time without saying anything.

“But it was an accident,” Arlo said.

“Yes,” Ida said. “It was.” When she sighed, her whole body shivered. “In your grandfather's eyes, everything that happened was my fault. Or Slocum's fault. Or it was both of our faults.”

Arlo felt water pounding against his dam. The walls shook, threatening to let loose everything he'd held inside.

Ida ran a thumb over the swollen knuckles of her hand. “I said terrible things to your mother, Arlo. Heaven knows I regret that now. But when your father won that scholarship, I had such hopes. . . . He was on his way out from under Slocum's thumb. He could be his own man.”

When she turned around, Arlo spotted a tear making a slow track down her left cheek.

“But then he found your mother. And he was crazy about her. I didn't think he was old enough to know what he was doing. I was afraid he was throwing his life away, giving up everything just to get away from Slocum.”

She took a tissue out of her other pocket and blotted away the dampness.

“And when he told us Amy was expecting and he had asked her to marry him . . .” Her voice cracked. “Sorry. I didn't mean to say that.”

Arlo watched his grandmother's face. The picture was becoming clear.

“You didn't want them to have me?” he said.

She had difficulty swallowing. “I didn't mean it that way, Arlo. You know I didn't.” Her face had a bruised look, as if tiny blood vessels had burst beneath her skin.

Arlo's heart pumped harder. He didn't know what to think or who to believe.

“Did you really try to see me?” he asked.

Ida nodded. “After Albert refused to let me see you, I made Augusta drive to the school yard. We parked across the street and waited until the bell rang. I saw you walk out with another boy.”

“Sam,” Arlo said automatically.

“The boy I met at the hospital?”

“Yes.”

“That's probably who it was. I don't know. Augusta and I waited until you were all the way down the street. I needed to make sure you were all right. And I could tell you were. You were laughing and talking with your friend. And I knew that Albert was devoted to you. I understood he was trying to protect you — even though
it broke my heart.
. . .”

“He wouldn't let me talk to you?”

“No.”

Arlo studied the photograph of his father. If only he could feel something, some connection to that face, to the look in his father's eyes. But the truth was, Wakeford Jones was just a face staring back at him. It could have been any face, except for the fact that they both shared that same narrowed spot in the left eyebrow. Arlo wanted what other kids had — a place in his memory where his father was always alive.

“Could you . . . ?” Arlo started.

“What?” Ida leaned toward him.

Now it was Arlo's voice that cracked on the words. “Tell me about him?”

She studied the photograph.

“Because Matthew's told me some things,” Arlo continued. “But I need to know more.”

She tucked the tissue back in her pocket. “Maybe you could help me get started,” she said.

“OK.” Arlo tried not to look at her. Maybe that would keep her from feeling uncomfortable. “What should I do?” he asked.

She thought for a moment. “Ask me questions,” she said. Then she nodded to herself. “Yes, I think that would help. If you could ask me something specific about him, that would give me a place to start.”

Arlo stared through the window. He had no idea what to ask.

“Take your time,” Ida said. “Ask anything.”

Arlo searched the room for clues. The first thing he noticed was the high-school graduation photo on the mantle in the living room. That was as good a place as any, wasn't it?

“Was he smart?”

Ida smiled. “Smart as a whip, though his grades didn't show it at first. Not until high school, anyway. That's when he got serious. Before ninth grade, Wake had other things on his mind.”

“Things like what?”

“Canoes. Paddling on the river. He liked to be outside.”

“I like that, too,” Arlo said.

“Yes,” Ida said. “I believe you two are a lot alike.”

She smiled then. And Arlo sat quietly for a moment.

“What else?” he asked finally.

Ida spread her hands over her knees. “So many things,” she whispered.

“Tell me one.”

“All right.” She stared into the fireplace. “Here's something I'll always remember about Wake, how he hated wearing shoes.”

“Why?”

She laughed then. “Who knows? Maybe I let him wander outside barefoot too often when he was a toddler. I've no idea, really. When he started first grade, his teacher called and told me I needed to speak to him.
I can't have a student going barefoot in class,
she said.
It sets a bad example and then every other boy wants to do the same thing.
”

Arlo laughed. “Did he stop?”

“He did e
ventually,
” Ida said. “But it took a long time.”

“What else?” Arlo asked.

Ida put the lid back on the box of photographs. “Wake hated unhappy endings. He refused to finish a book if it turned sad. Switched off the TV in the middle of movies sometimes. That used to drive your grandfather crazy.”

“Tell me one more thing.”

Ida reached for Arlo's hand. “He loved every minute of being your father,” she said. “If he could see you now, it would make him very proud.”

Arlo choked, though it came out as more of a hiccup. “I wish I remembered him,” he said.

“I wish you did, too. But it's no one's fault. It's just something that happened. And now we have to make the best of it.”

Arlo nodded.

The sun shifted, throwing light across the table. The flood inside had subsided now and somehow,
miraculously,
Arlo's dam was still intact, a little pockmarked maybe, but still standing.

“You did the right thing coming here,” Ida said.

“I did?”

Their eyes met over Steamboat's head.

“You kept me from selling my house.” She squeezed his hand tightly. “You kept me from losing the chance to know my grandson.”

Arlo's heart pushed against the back of his throat.

“Do you think . . . ?” his grandmother started. Then she stopped and cleared her throat. “What I mean is, do you think you could be happy . . . living here with me?”

Arlo felt as if the earth had taken a momentary pause from spinning on its axis. “What about Poppo?” he whispered.

Ida looked pained. “I know,” she said. “What
can
we do about your grandfather?”

“I think he'd like to stay near Eldon,” Arlo said. He watched for Ida's reaction.

She lifted an eyebrow. “Do you think he could be happy in one of those apartments?”

Arlo thought about his recent conversations with Poppo. He thought back to their visit to Marshboro and the way Poppo and Eldon had laughed as they shared old stories. He thought about how relieved Poppo had seemed when he found out how well Arlo was doing in Edgewater.

“I think so,” Arlo said.

Ida tilted her head. “And what about you?” she asked.

“I'm OK,” Arlo said.
“Now.”

She smiled. “Good.” She reached over and hugged him.

Steamboat barked and wagged his tail.

“Don't worry, boy. Arlo's not going anywhere.” Ida patted Steamboat on the head. “He staying right here with us.”

Sometime after midnight, Arlo woke with a start. Something drew him downstairs. He walked to the alcove and stood looking at the shelves.
What is it?
he thought.
What am I looking for?

Finally, he went into the kitchen and drank a glass of milk. On his way back upstairs, he had the same nagging feeling, as if there were something in the alcove he needed to see. He paused on the landing, waiting for . . . whatever it was, but nothing came to him, so finally he climbed the stairs and went back to sleep.

By Monday morning, Arlo had forgotten about the funny feeling he'd had in front of the alcove. He had overslept and was rushing to get ready for school.

“I have a meeting with Nathan at four forty-five,” Ida said. “That's the only time he could squeeze me in. We need to get some papers in the mail to Miss Hasslebarger. Why don't you go home with Maywood after school?”

“OK. Sure,” Arlo said, happy for an excuse to delay doing homework.

That afternoon, he and Maywood went bike riding. Arlo borrowed Lucius's bike since he didn't have one of his own in Edgewater. They rode over the sidewalks at Saint Ann's and down to the public beach and the creek below Augusta Stonestreet's house. Then they took the path to the park and followed it all the way to the marina and beyond. They rode and rode until they were at the turn to Ida's house. By that time, they were hot and thirsty and tired and they were ready to take a break.

“I have a house key,” Arlo said. “And there's lemonade in the refrigerator.”

“Good,” Maywood said. “I need to stop and rest. Ida won't mind if we help ourselves, will she?”

“No,” Arlo said. “Why would she mind?”

They made the turn onto the driveway and rode past the orchard to the circle. As they neared the house, Arlo spotted a familiar-looking black sedan parked in front.

Maywood drew in her breath. “What's
he
doing here?” she asked.

“No idea,” Arlo said.

They pushed their bikes through the yard to the side of the garage. Maywood jabbed Arlo with her elbow. “I thought Ida left Steamboat in the house when she wasn't home,” she whispered.

“She does,” Arlo said. “Unless she takes him with her.”

“Then how come he's over there?” Maywood raised an arm and pointed through the gap in the hedge to the yard next door. Steamboat was standing in the neighbor's driveway, having a staring contest with a cat. As they watched, the cat flicked her tail and Steamboat barked and backed away.

“Ida never leaves him outside if she's not home,” Arlo said.

“Well, he had to get out somehow,” Maywood said. “Come on. We should see what's going on.”

“I don't know,” Arlo said, “but we need to catch Steamboat before he gets in trouble.”

They parked their bikes behind the garage and crept toward the driveway next door.

“Steamboat first,” Arlo said.

“OK,” Maywood said. “But hurry. We need to find out what's going on.”