All That's Missing (3 page)

“You still have that game we used to play?” Sam asked as they walked in the door.

“You mean Jenga? Sure. It's in the cabinet in the living room.”

Arlo led Sam to the low cabinet built into the wall beside the fireplace. Inside was a jumble of tattered magazines, board games, decks of cards, broken video games, old files and letters, and the plastic pumpkin Arlo had used for trick-or-treating when he was in second grade.

“What happened to all your stuff?” Sam asked.

“Poppo must have been looking for something.” Arlo's face burned. The cabinet looked like a toddler had been playing in there.

“Not exactly organized, is he?” Sam reached for a tall book with a leather binding. “What's this?” he asked.

“Family pictures,” Arlo said, watching as Sam paged through the album.

“That you?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“You had red hair?”

Arlo shrugged. “Only when I was a baby. It turned light brown after that.”

Sam turned the page. “Who's that?”

“My grandmother,” Arlo said.

Sam pulled the album closer. “She looks mean,” he said. “No offense.”

“That's OK.” Arlo studied the woman in the photograph. It was true she looked like she was angry at someone. “I don't really know her,” Arlo said. “She lives in another state.”

“So that's why you never talk about her, I guess. Huh?”

Arlo sighed. “She and Poppo don't get along very well.”

“How come?”

Arlo's jaw tightened. “Every time I try to ask about that side of the family, Poppo changes the subject.” He pointed to the lady in the photograph. “Especially if I ask about her.”

“What's her name?” Sam asked.

“Ida Jones.”

“So she's your dad's mother?”

“Yeah.”

“Something bad must have happened between them.” Sam pulled the book closer and stared at the photograph. “What do you think it was?”

“No idea,” Arlo said.

“Must be something you're not supposed to know about, then.”

“Maybe.” Arlo didn't like to admit that he'd had the same thought.

“Hey. Here's what we were looking for!” Sam held up the Jenga box. “Still want to play?”

“Sure.” Arlo took one last look at his grandmother before closing the album and sliding it inside the cupboard.

After a few rounds of Jenga, they heard Poppo singing as he climbed the steps to the front porch. It was a song about the moon and pizza. Arlo watched Sam's eyes wander toward the window.

“Geez. When did it turn so dark outside? What time is it, anyway?”

“Almost six,” Arlo said.

“I gotta go.” Sam jumped up and headed for the door, pausing in the front hallway to listen. “Your granddad sure likes to sing, doesn't he?”

“He sure does,” Arlo agreed.

Sam nodded his head in rhythm with the song. “He's pretty good.”

“Thanks,” Arlo said. “That song's one of his favorites.”

Sam opened the door just as Poppo reached the top step.

“Hi there,” Poppo said.

“Hi, Mr. Sabatini,” Sam said. Then he turned to Arlo. “See you tomorrow. OK?”

“Sure,” Arlo said. “See you.”

When Arlo was little, Poppo used to read to him every night.
The Elephant's Child
was Arlo's favorite. Poppo made the words twist and turn like the bends in the Greenbrier River. Arlo recited the words along with his grandfather, the lines about the “great grey-green, greasy Limpopo River.”

When Arlo grew older, Poppo told another story.

A dark night. Snow. Ice. The river. A mother and father in an old car careening out of control on a rickety bridge.

He'd told the story again, just a few weeks ago, on the night before school started. Arlo sat on one side of the kitchen table and Poppo sat on the other, keeping a watchful eye on the pot where crushed tomatoes, roasted peppers, garlic, and sweet basil simmered into a thick sauce.

“How old was I?” Arlo asked, though he already knew the answer.

“You were two,” Poppo said.

“I don't remember them.”

“'Course not. You were too young,” Poppo said. “But you'll have part of them when you need them.”

“What do you mean?” Arlo asked.

“Angels and spirits,” Poppo said, lifting his head to catch Arlo's eyes. “Help comes from the other side.”

“You mean, like, ghosts?” Arlo asked.

“Same thing,” Poppo said. “They'll help you find your way.”

Poppo's mind wandered so much these days. Sometimes he said crazy things. Arlo tried not to think about it too much. Thinking only made things worse.

Hours after Sam had left, Arlo hunkered under the covers in his room. Faces from the album flickered through his mind. For some reason, the house felt much colder than usual. Maybe it was because Arlo was thinking about that night, about icy water and a frozen bridge. Or maybe it was because he'd become chilled running in wet clothes that afternoon. Arlo pulled the quilt up over his ears and fell asleep dreaming about Halvorson and Ackley. In his dream, it was freezing outside — so cold that Arlo lost track of what he was doing. Then somehow, he wasn't in the dream anymore. He was in his bed and he had the covers pulled up over his nose. But it was still frigid.

And it was about that time Arlo realized the temperature was real.

Must be a window open somewhere. Strange. Arlo hadn't opened the window in his room in ages. Poppo must have done it. Poppo had been doing the strangest stuff lately. Opening windows when it was cold enough to snow outside. Geez.

After soaking up as much warmth as he could from the covers, Arlo burst out of bed and darted across the floorboards. His window was closed, so the air must be coming from someplace else. He hurried into the hallway and stood at the top of the stairs. No wonder. The front door was standing wide open.

What the heck?

Poppo.

What had he done now?

Arlo checked Poppo's bedroom. Sheets and a blanket lay heaped on the floor. Otherwise, the room was
empty.
Great. Now what was he supposed to do?

Arlo checked every room in the house. Bathroom. Hallway. Kitchen. Extra bedroom and bath upstairs. Even the basement, which was like an iceberg, and the attic, which wasn't much warmer.

Poppo was gone. Vamoosed. Vanished. Meanwhile, it was getting colder by the minute outside. Arlo checked the clock in the kitchen. Four seventeen.

He needed to find Poppo.
Fast.
Before the police found him. What would they do with an old man wandering around lost and confused in the middle of the night? Arlo pulled on sweatpants and his parka and headed outside.

The sidewalks were filled with puddles from yesterday's rain. The soles of Arlo's shoes oozed water after half a block. It was way too cold for September. And why did it have to be so dark outside? Arlo shivered on his way up South Park Drive, then crossed over to Maple, and climbed the hill to the ball field behind the high school. That was Poppo's favorite spot, especially when he was time traveling. He used to hang out there with his little brother, Frankie, way back in the fifties when they were in school.

Arlo held his breath as he came closer. A few more steps and he'd have a view of the backstop and . . .

Sure enough, there was an old man huddled on the bench beside the backstop. Arlo ran over to him.

Poppo looked up from the can of sausages he was emptying into his mouth.

“Hey, Frankie. Cold out tonight, isn't it?”

“No, Poppo. I'm Arlo. Not Frankie.”

“Huh?” Poppo frowned.

“I'm your grandson. Remember?”

“What happened to Frankie?”

“He died a long time ago, Poppo. Meningitis. You told me all about it.”

“Nah. Not Frankie. They done something with him. Why'd they want to go and do something to my little brother?”

“Who did?”

Poppo shrugged. “Those people,” he said, blinking at Arlo. He set the can of sausages on the bench. Then he frowned. “I'm confused, aren't I?” he said.

“Maybe a little,” Arlo said.

Poppo slid a bandanna out of his left pocket and dabbed at his eyes. “Sorry,” he said.

“That's OK,” Arlo said.

Poppo pulled his collar higher around his neck.

“Cold?” Arlo asked.

Poppo nodded, shivering.

“You should have worn your coat.” Arlo frowned at the sliver of limp lettuce fluttering off the side of the sausage can. He twisted his neck to check the Dumpster in the parking lot. Poppo wouldn't do
that,
would he? The cover was clamped shut on the Dumpster, thank goodness.
So the food had come from . . . where?

“Something wrong?” Poppo asked.

“No. It's just . . .” Arlo glanced across the grass toward the trash can beside the bleachers. His heart dropped at the sight of wadded-up papers and empty food wrappers littering the ground. He gave the can a sly nudge with his elbow, inching it to the edge of the bench. Then when Poppo turned his head, Arlo gave the can an extra tap, sending it toppling into the mud.
There. At least that was taken care of. Poppo couldn't eat any more of the food he'd salvaged out of the trash.

“We should go now.” Arlo helped his grandfather up from the bench. “Come on. Let's go home and warm you up.”

They walked down the sidewalk, across Rotary Street, past Fanucci's Market, toward home. The wind was cold. Poppo's lumbering gait slowed them down. It took three times longer to walk home than it had taken Arlo to walk to the ball field by himself.

As Arlo guided his grandfather toward the porch steps, Poppo lifted his head to the light in Arlo's window.

“My grandson lives up there,” he said. “He must be wondering where I am.”

Arlo's heart swelled. For a moment, he couldn't speak. “You're still shivering,” he said. “Let's get you in the house.”

Later that night in bed, Arlo thought about Poppo and Ida Jones and his mom and dad and the whole mystery about why the people on the Jones side of the family hated the people on the Sabatini side.

The thing about families, Arlo thought, was that there was always some question nobody wanted to answer for you, and it was like a stray thread pulling loose in a sweater. You could tug at it all you wanted, but in the end, all you'd have was a pile of twisted yarn.

Ida Jones was a stray thread in Arlo's life. Every time he tried to figure her out, another question popped up. Like today, for instance — the way she looked in that photograph, with her eyes glaring at somebody behind the camera. Why hadn't he noticed that before? Now that Arlo had seen Ida Jones through Sam's eyes, he had another family question. Who the heck was she mad at? And why?

By the next afternoon, Poppo was fine. He was having one of his good days, which was kind of unbelievable considering how confused he had been the day before. But that was the way things went with Poppo's wonky brain. One day he was fine, and then for the next ten days, he might wander around in a complete fog.

Arlo pulled the album out of the cabinet and carried it to the kitchen, where Poppo was drinking a cup of coffee. Now was his chance. He should ask Poppo to tell him about the people in the pictures while his mind was clear.

“What you got there?” Poppo asked.

Arlo held up the album.

“Where'd you find that?”

“In the living-room cabinet.” Arlo set the album on the table. “Sam and I were looking for a game and Sam found this.”

Poppo nodded.

“Mind if I ask you something?”

“Fire away.” Poppo pulled out a chair for Arlo to sit down.

Arlo sat. He spread the album open on the table and turned to the page with a photo of his grandmother sitting on a granite bench beside a stern-looking man. Behind them was a large white house, and beyond that, a wide river stretched to the horizon.

“Is this the house where my dad grew up?”