All That's Missing (6 page)

“A long time?” Miss Hasslebarger kept her eyes on the form, but Arlo could see her eyebrows arching.

“How long?” she asked.

“Pretty long, I guess.”

“I see.” She put down her pen. “There's a little more to this story, isn't there?”

Arlo shrugged.

“OK, Arlo. You don't have to share family secrets with me. Like I said, I'm here to help you. But, tell me this . . . if you can. There isn't any reason you're afraid of your grandmother Jones, is there?”

“Oh, no, ma'am. I haven't even seen her since . . .”

Miss Hasslebarger locked eyes with him. “Since?” she repeated.

Arlo tried to speak, but his throat closed up on him. “Couldn't I just stay here in the hospital?”

Miss Hasslebarger jotted a few more notes on the form and then closed the file. “For an hour or two, yes. Of course. But I can't very well leave you in the waiting room for days on end.”

“But Poppo's going to be all right.”

“We hope so, yes. But until then . . .”

“I can stay here. I mean, during the day. At night, I'll go home.”

Miss Hasslebarger sighed. It was a long outpouring, as though she were trying to convey how much she regretted what she needed to say. “That's just it, Arlo. With a stroke, there's no way of knowing how long recovery will take.” She looked at him a moment. “How old is your grandfather?”

“Seventy-nine.”

“And you are?”

“Eleven.”

“Exactly.” Miss Hasslebarger moved her head up and down sadly. “There's a good chance you'll have to make some changes.”

“What kind of changes?”

“Mr. Sabatini is a bit old to be your primary caretaker.”

Arlo's stomach tightened. Why did everybody keep saying that? “He goes to all my ball games and he makes sure I do my homework and takes me fishing.”
OK. So, they hadn't been fishing in over a year, but still. . . .

The more Arlo talked, the more pained the expression on Miss Hasslebarger's face became.

“He probably won't be able to drive for a long time, maybe never, and . . .”

“That's OK,” Arlo said. “I walk to school. And we buy lots of our food at Fanucci's. It's this little market right down the street. . . .”

“Yes. Fanucci's. I read about it in the police report.”

A clammy feeling seeped into Arlo's stomach, as if he had stepped into a dark tunnel and was breathing damp, mold-encrusted air.

Miss Hasslebarger leaned across the desk, and Arlo got another whiff of mothballs, which caused his stomach to churn even harder than it had before.

“Of course, we can
try
to locate your grandmother,” she said. “But meanwhile, you need a safe place to stay, so I'll take you to the shelter for tonight and . . .”

Arlo's heart stopped. “But couldn't we wait . . . ?”

Miss Hasslebarger adjusted her glasses. “They're very nice there,” she said. “And I'll pick you up first thing in the morning and bring you back here.”

If only Arlo had an aunt or cousin someplace who might take care of him, the way Sam's aunt Betty had shown up from Detroit to save him.

Miss Hasslebarger snapped the file shut. Arlo jumped as if someone had fired off a gun. “Wait a second,” he said.

She frowned. “My car's right out front,” she said as she stuffed the file in her bag and motioned for Arlo to stand up. “It's late. We'd better be going.”

Calling the Preston Children's Shelter a home was
wrong.
It was a gray building near the airport and looked more like a prison than a home. There were barely any windows, and it was perched on a hilltop all by itself, totally isolated from civilization, as if someone wanted to make sure that the kids living there couldn't possibly escape.

Miss Hasslebarger parked in the visitor's space by the front door. “You'll have to share a room tonight,” she said. “They're full at the moment. But it will be nice to have company, don't you think?”

Arlo didn't say anything. It was already quarter of eleven, so it wasn't likely he'd make friends. Not in a place like this. And besides, he wasn't planning to stay, either.

Miss Hasslebarger turned him over to a person named D.W. Whitehair. He was a tall, scrawny man, bald on top with long gray fringes of hair that straggled to his collarbone. He had bushy eyebrows, like antennae, that flopped up and down every time he opened his mouth. As if that weren't disturbing enough, his left eye blinked involuntarily in a kind of nervous twitch. It looked like he was winking at you. Only he wasn't winking. D.W. Whitehair didn't seem like the sort of person who winked. He might frown or scowl or even shake his head, but that was about as friendly as Arlo figured he would get. With his stooped shoulders and lanky arms, he looked a lot like a praying mantis.

“You'll be safe here, Arlo,” Miss Hasslebarger said. “Don't worry.”

Was she kidding? Arlo was terrified.

Mr. Whitehair jerked his head toward a room on the right. “Come on in the office, kid. Watch out for Rupert there.” He gestured toward an ancient-looking terrier who had crusty bald patches where his skin was all scabby and red.

“Nice dog,” Arlo said. He leaned down to pat Rupert on the head, and the dog snapped at him.

“Careful of your fingers. Rupert's a little cranky. Hasn't felt well lately. Skin condition, you know.”

Arlo nodded. He slid past the dog into Mr. Whitehair's office.

“Sorry you have to bunk with Purvis,” Mr. Whitehair said. He handed Arlo a towel and a washcloth and a toothbrush and a tiny tube of toothpaste. “The thing is, we're a little short on space right now. But it's only for tonight. If you have any trouble, you just tap on my door. All right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. That's settled, then. Oh. There is one more thing. I'm sort of a sound sleeper, so you may have to knock a few times.”

“I'll try to remember that.”

Mr. Whitehair led Arlo down the hall. They passed a thin boy with dark hair who was carrying a toothbrush toward the bathroom. He looked like he could use an extra couple of meals.

“Hi,” the boy said.

“Hi,” Arlo said.

“This is Burton,” Mr. Whitehair said. “Burton, meet Arlo. He's going to be staying with us tonight while his grandfather's in the hospital.”

“I thought we didn't have any rooms left,” the boy said.

Mr. Whitehair cleared his throat. “Well, technically speaking, that's true. But there's an extra bed in O'Dell's room.”

The boy's eyes widened to the size of walnuts. “Not Purvis,” he said.

“Just for tonight,” the man said. Then he raised an eyebrow. “Up kind of late, aren't you?” he asked the boy.

Burton shivered. “Forgot to brush my teeth,” he said.

Arlo's stomach pumped acid into his throat. Why exactly was it that Miss Hasslebarger thought Arlo was safer here than in his own home? He followed Mr. Whitehair to the first room on the right. Mr. Whitehair knocked and then opened the door.

“Glad you weren't asleep yet,” he said to the refrigerator-shaped boy playing video games on his bed. “This is Arlo. He going to be with us for tonight.”

Purvis narrowed his eyes. “You're not thinking of putting him in here, are you?”

Mr. Whitehair cleared his throat. “I'm sure you'll make the best of it.”

Purvis got a nasty grin on his face.

“Right, then,” Mr. Whitehair said after a pause. “I'll leave you two to get acquainted.” He paused at the door. “I know you'll do your best to stay out of Arlo's way, won't you, Purvis?”

“Yeah, right. 'Course I will,” Purvis said. He crossed his arms over his chest.

Arlo didn't say a word. He waited until Mr. Whitehair had gone, feeling all hope of survival vanish with him.

“I told Whitehair not to put anybody in here,” Purvis said. “I get a single room. Always. That's the rule. So what do they do? Stick some dork in here. Like I'm not going to notice.”

Arlo shrugged. “Sorry,” he said.

Purvis rolled onto his side and glared at Arlo. “Make that,
Sorry, sir, Mr. O'Dell, sir.
Got it?”

Arlo nodded. He stepped gingerly across the rug and took a seat on the empty bed, keeping his eyes trained on Purvis the whole time. On closer inspection, he noticed a line of red hatch marks where Purvis had had stitches over his left eyebrow. He thought about stories he'd heard about kids getting put in children's shelters, about things that happened to them in their own homes.

“I'll be leaving in the morning,” Arlo said. “If you want, I could sleep in the hall.”

“Nah. Whitehair don't let nobody sleep outside their rooms.”

Purvis stood and walked to the drawers built into the wall. Arlo couldn't help noticing his limp. He was taking something out of one of the drawers when he caught Arlo staring at him.

“What are you looking at?” he said.

“Nothing,” Arlo said.

Purvis lunged toward Arlo's bed, taking a swing with his right arm. Arlo rolled out of his way and fell off the bed. Purvis started laughing.

“You're a real wimp, aren't you, Fido?”

“Arlo.”

“Yeah. Right. Whatever. What a loser.”

All he had to do was survive the night. Arlo kept repeating that to himself. But it didn't help. If he'd had any doubts, he was certain now.
He wasn't staying.
Period.
But where was he supposed to go? The shelter was at least three miles from town. And the only road was a narrow two-lane with thick woods on either side, so there was no way to walk on it without being spotted. And there was a fence bordering the woods, so you couldn't duck into them and hide.

Arlo walked down the hall to the bathroom to think. When he came back out, Purvis had locked the door to his room. In a way it was a relief. Now Arlo had an excuse. He was standing there in the dark trying to figure out what to do next when he heard footsteps coming down the hall. It was the boy he'd seen earlier, the one named Burton.

“Hi,” Arlo said.

“Hi,” Burton said. “I was coming to make sure you were all right.”

“Thanks,” Arlo said.

“They're not supposed to put anyone in a room with Purvis. Everybody knows that.”

“He locked me out,” Arlo said.

“You're lucky,” Burton said. “You should see what he did to the last kid they put in there.”

Arlo shivered.

“You can spend the rest of the night in my room, if you like,” Burton said. “You'll have to sleep on the floor, but we have extra blankets. My roommate, Max . . . The thing is, he sleeps pretty soundly. He probably won't even know you're there.”

Burton was even skinnier than Arlo remembered from seeing him earlier in the hallway. Poor kid had probably been terrorized by Purvis.

“I don't want to get you in trouble,” Arlo said.

“It's OK,” Burton said. “You can go to the dining room early. Mr. Whitehair won't know the difference.”

“Thanks,” Arlo said.

Burton gave him a nod.

They made their way quietly down the hall. Luckily, Burton's room was at the opposite end of the building from Purvis's.

Burton pointed to a spare blanket folded up at the foot of his bed. “You can use that, if you want. There's another one on top of the bookcase.”

“That's OK. This is fine.” Arlo took the blanket and made a bed on the floor. He stretched out and closed his eyes.

Sleep was out of the question, but at least nobody would hassle him here. He lay awake in the dark, planning his escape. When there was a faint orange glow through the window, he got up and started looking for a way out, but there were alarms on all the doors, and the front door was securely latched.

He was checking out the ground floor, where the dining hall was, when he noticed a panel truck backing up to the loading dock.
SEAL'S FINE FOODS
was painted in red letters on the door of the cab. Arlo watched the truck inch closer. What he needed was some way to get far enough down the road so that he wouldn't be spotted walking, just far enough to make it back to town. He could walk home from there. It was only a short ride . . .
about the distance a truck might travel between deliveries.

Of course. He would hide in the back of the truck and sneak out when the driver made his next delivery. With any luck, it would be at a place close to town.

Making it down to the kitchen was the easy part. The driver was carrying boxes off the truck and lining them up in the hallway for the cook. Arlo hid behind one of the tables in the dining room.

“Another box of canned peas?” the cook asked. “Geez, what d'you have, a warehouse of this stuff you needed to get rid of?”

“They're on special this month. Whitehair tripled the order.”

“Peas and powdered eggs. What am I supposed to do with that?”