All That's Missing (4 page)

“That's it,” Poppo said. “Right there on the river in Edgewater.”

“Edge — what?”

“Edgewater,” Poppo said. “The town where your grandmother lives.”

“How come we never go there?” Arlo asked.

Poppo twisted in his chair. “Too far,” he said after a long pause. Then, glancing sideways, he stood and emptied his cup at the sink.

“How far is it?” Arlo asked.

“Three hundred and fifty miles,” Poppo said, keeping his back turned toward Arlo. “Probably more. The roads aren't so good, either. Some of them, anyway. Least they weren't the last time we went there.”

Arlo waited while Poppo stood at the counter staring out the window at the empty backyard.

“You met her once, you know,” Poppo said as he poured himself a fresh cup of coffee.

“I don't remember her,” Arlo said.

“'Course you don't,” Poppo said. “You were barely two.”

“At the . . .”

“That's right. After the memorial service. In Edgewater.” Poppo scooped two spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee and stirred it slowly before coming back to sit at the table with Arlo.

“Do you ever talk to her?” Arlo asked.

Poppo raised his eyes. He looked straight at Arlo. “Once in a while,” he said, and then added, “she calls to check up on you.”

Arlo studied his grandfather's face. He tried to read what was going on behind Poppo's eyes, but it was impossible. “How come I don't talk to her?” he asked.

Poppo stirred his coffee some more. He looked over at the calendar on the door of the pantry, then toward the window over the sink. “Seems like she always calls when you're not around,” he said.

Was he telling the truth? Poppo wouldn't lie about something like that, would he? So why was he avoiding eye contact? “What's she like?” Arlo asked.

“I don't know.” Poppo waved his hand in the air as if he were searching for an answer. “Always seemed kind of quiet to me. Maybe that was on account of Slocum being so loud.”

“Slocum?” Arlo asked.

“Your grandfather Jones,” Poppo said. “He was your dad's father. That's him there, on the bench beside your grandmother.” Poppo pointed to the stern-looking man in the photograph.

“Was he like you?” Arlo asked.

Poppo made a grunting sound. “Sure hope not,” he said.

Arlo frowned. “What do you mean?”

Poppo took a long sip of coffee. He swished it around in his mouth before swallowing. “I guess you could say two people couldn't be less alike than Slocum Jones and Al Sabatini.”

Arlo thought about that for a minute. “Did my grandfather Jones do something wrong?” he asked.

“Depends on who you ask,” Poppo said, taking another slug of coffee. “I don't mean he went to jail or anything like that, but . . .”

Arlo waited. “But, what?” he said.

Poppo grunted again. “Slocum liked making rules, for one thing,” he said. “And he loved telling other folks how to live their lives.”

Arlo didn't like the way Poppo's neck was turning red. Something about Slocum Jones obviously bothered him a lot.

“What about my grandmother?” Arlo asked, hoping that would calm Poppo down. “Does she like making rules?”

Poppo looked out the window. “I doubt she ever got the chance as long as Slocum was alive. 'Course, you understand I only saw the two of them a couple of times. She and your mother didn't get along very well.”

Finally, they were getting to the important stuff. “Why not?” Arlo asked.

Poppo's eyes turned misty. He cleared his throat. It took him a long time to answer, and when he did, he wasn't looking at Arlo. He was staring at the blank wall and his voice was flat. “There were hard feelings all around on account of the way your daddy and her ran off and got married,” he said.

Arlo waited before responding. “Ran off?” he said, keeping his eyes on Poppo's face. “You never told me that.”

Poppo frowned. “Nothing to talk about, really.”

Clearly there was a
lot
to talk about and Poppo didn't want to discuss any of it. What did that even mean —
running off to get married
?

“I don't understand,” Arlo said.

Poppo sighed. “I know you don't. That's why . . .”

“Why
what
?” Arlo asked.

“Maybe when you're older,” Poppo said. He got up and dumped his coffee again. Only this time he didn't pour a fresh cup. He stayed at the kitchen counter with his back to Arlo, as if he didn't want Arlo to see his face.

“How come I never see her?” Arlo asked, feeling suddenly desperate to get as much information as he could, knowing that Poppo's patience with his questions was running thin.

Poppo's shoulders collapsed. “Are we playing twenty questions?” he asked.

“No,” Arlo said in a small voice. “I'm just curious.”

Poppo sighed. “No harm in that, I suppose.” He turned around finally and came over to stand behind Arlo's chair. “You'll see her someday,” he said. “I promise. But right now you're busy with school, aren't you?”

“I guess so.” A mixture of anger and disappointment swirled in Arlo's chest. Poppo was keeping something from him. Something big. Maybe a lot of things.

The air was thick between them. Poppo lifted his hunting jacket off the hook by the back door.

“I think I'll go out for a while,” he said. “Leave me a note if you go to Sam's house. All right?”

“Sure, Poppo,” Arlo said. “I didn't mean to make you mad.”

Poppo sighed again, deeper this time. “It's all right, Arlo. You didn't make me mad. None of this was ever your fault. Remember that. All right?”

None of
what
? Arlo stared at his grandfather's back. He had no idea what Poppo was talking about. But he didn't want to upset him, either. So he answered the best way he could.

“Sure, Poppo,” he said. “I'll remember.”

“Good.”

After he was gone, Arlo studied the photograph once more. He flipped through the rest of the album, stopping at the page with the picture of his parents standing under an apple tree. His father had his arm draped across his mother's shoulders. Her face was turned to his, and they were smiling at each other. They looked so happy. If only Arlo could have known them,
really known
them, before they died. He studied his father's eyebrow, the place where the hair thinned until there almost wasn't a line. Arlo reached up and touched the same spot on his own eyebrow, where it narrowed the same way. He wanted to feel some connection.
Father. Son. Family.
But all that came was a single word.
Gone.

Poppo's good days never lasted. By the following Thursday, he was as confused as ever. Arlo sat at the kitchen table, struggling with math problems and waiting for Poppo to come home. By six thirty, he had eaten a bowl of cereal for dinner. Still Poppo wasn't home. Seven fifteen came and went and still there was no sign of Poppo. Cold air seeped through the gap underneath the kitchen door. Then it started to rain, a light sprinkling that barely counted as rain,
at first,
but who knew what might happen later? Poppo was out there alone in the streets, and Arlo needed to find him. He pulled on his parka and headed outside.

He was halfway down the steps when a dark sedan pulled in front of the house. Out stepped a man and woman in uniform. As they moved up the sidewalk, Arlo felt the cornflakes he'd eaten for dinner form a rock in his stomach.

“Your name Arlo Jones?” the man asked, hitching up his pants as he placed his foot on the bottom step.

“Yes, sir?”

“Anybody here with you?” the lady asked.

Arlo gulped. For a moment, he considered lying. But then they would probably ask to go inside, and how would Arlo explain why no one was at home? “I live with my grandpa,” he said finally.

The lady glanced sideways at the man.

“Your grandpa named Albert Sabatini?” the man asked.

“Yes.” Arlo's shoulders stiffened. “Is he all right?”

“Don't worry,” the lady said. “Your grandpa's at the hospital now. The paramedics took him to Marshboro General.”

“Hospital?” Arlo's heart ricocheted in his chest.

“Mr. Fanucci was taking out the garbage,” the man explained. “You know Fanucci's?”

Arlo nodded.

“Fanucci found your grandpa climbing out of the Dumpster. Or trying to. Seems he didn't quite make it before he passed out.”

“Passed out?”

“He was unconscious when they found him,” the man said.

Poppo was in a Dumpster?
Arlo thought about the garbage strewn around the trash can at the ball field last week and the can of Vienna sausages.

The lady police officer squatted down till she was eye level with Arlo. “We thought you'd like to see him,” she said.

Arlo started toward their car.

“Don't you need to call somebody first?” the man asked.

Arlo looked at him.

“You know, an uncle or aunt? Somebody like that.”

“You should have somebody with you,” the lady added.

The name Ida Jones skipped across Arlo's mind. But even if he thought she could help him, he had no idea what her phone number was or how to reach her.

The man stared at Arlo. “Mr. Fanucci said your grandfather kept calling for some guy named Frankie,” he said. “How about calling him?”

“It might be worth a try,” the lady police officer suggested.

Arlo looked down at his feet. “Frankie's dead,” he said. “He was Poppo's little brother.”

“Oh.” The man exchanged glances with the woman. “That's too bad, kid.”

Then nobody said anything for a minute, until finally, the man cleared his throat and the lady asked another question.

“So, there's nobody?” she asked.

“Just Poppo,” Arlo said.

“You're shivering,” the lady said. “We'd better get you in the car.”

The man parked the police car in the lot for the emergency room. Arlo followed him inside with the lady officer bringing up the rear. They walked through a set of double doors to a window where a woman in a nurse's uniform was typing on a computer.

“They brought this kid's grandpa in an hour ago,” the man told the nurse.

“Name?” the nurse asked without looking up.

“Sabatini,” the man said.

The nurse stopped typing. She raised her head and looked at Arlo. Was it Arlo's imagination or did she let out a small groan? Then she looked at the man. “They moved him to ICU,” she said.

And Arlo felt the lady officer put a hand on his shoulder.

Both officers stayed with Arlo in the waiting room until a nurse came.

“Would you like to see your grandfather now?” the nurse asked.

“Yes, please,” Arlo said.

“I can take him in,” the nurse said to the two officers.

The man gave Arlo a small salute. “Take care of yourself, kid,” he said as he stood to leave.

“Hope your grandpa's OK,” the lady officer said.

“Thanks,” Arlo said.

His heart jumped around in his chest as he followed the nurse through the double doors. According to the clock, it was ten minutes past eight.

The lights were dim in intensive care. Curtains on metal rods were all that separated one bed from another. Arlo was almost afraid to see how bad Poppo looked. But when the nurse pulled back the curtain, Poppo looked pretty much the same as Arlo remembered him except for the bandage over his right eye. His hair was scraggly and he hadn't shaved for a few days, but Arlo had gotten used to those changes already. Poppo hadn't looked like his usual self since way back in the spring.

“He's not awake,” the nurse said, “but you can talk to him if you like.”

There was a tube coming out of Poppo's nose and a needle taped to the back of his hand. The needle was attached to a long plastic tube that connected to a bag of fluid on a metal pole.

“Can he hear me?” Arlo whispered.

“It's possible,” the nurse said. “You should try. Sometimes it helps.”

“Helps with what?” Arlo asked.

The nurse's eyes widened for a moment, as though she were afraid she'd said something she shouldn't. “The doctor will explain all of that to you later,” she said. Then she pulled the curtain shut before adding, “I'll be just outside if you need me.”

Arlo pulled a chair closer to Poppo's bed. “Hey, Poppo,” he said. “It's me. Arlo.”

Poppo lay there with his eyes closed and his chest moving up and down. But he didn't say anything. He didn't groan or blink or even move his hands. Arlo wasn't sure how long he talked. Five minutes? Fifteen? He was all mixed up about time. All too soon, the nurse reappeared.

“I'm afraid you'll have to go out to the lounge now,” she said. “The phlebotomist is coming to take a blood sample. And then they're taking your grandfather downstairs for some tests.”