I gathered my courage and knocked. Silence. I knocked again. Silence.
I raised my fist. She’s not here, I thought. One more knock and I go away empty. One more knock, and she slips away—maybe forever.
My heart fell, and my hand with it. I turned.
Attila stood at the foot of the steps, her hands on her hips. “You really are a coward,” she said, her voice like a knife. “I’m sorry I even bothered to tell you the truth, Mo. I deserve a better enemy than you.”
I spun and knocked on the door like I could knock its head off.
Beyond the door, the shuffle of feet. “Who’s there?” a woman called.
My heart jumped. “It’s me. Mo. Miss Moses LoBeau. A sixth grader in her prime.”
The door squeaked open—just one inch.
Two inches.
Three.
An old woman peered out at me, her face tanned and wrinkled, her white braid wound in a tight cap around her head. She stared at me, her blue eyes bright as a river’s daydream.
She opened the door wide as Dale and Harm clattered up behind me.
“I’m . . . I’m Mo LoBeau,” I said. She was too old to be Upstream Mother. “We’re looking for . . .”
She glanced at my pendant and smiled. “You’re looking for Josie Barrow,” she said. “What took you so long to get here?”
* * *
The air went thin and rare.
Josie Barrow.
“Is she here?” I asked, trying to remember how to breathe. “Is she home? I mean . . .”
Dale trotted up the steps behind me. “If Josie Barrow is Upstream Mother, Mo’s her girl,” he explained.
She touched my face soft as a whisper. “Come in. I’ll get us something to eat.”
“Who are you?” I asked. “I mean . . .”
She laughed easy and quick. “Call me Miss Bessie. Josie did. I made a cake yesterday, I’ll cut us a slice.” She glanced at Attila. “What about your friend?”
Attila had perched on the yard swing. “That’s my enemy. She ain’t hungry. Neither are we.”
Dale elbowed me. “Excuse me,” he said, very polite. “I’m Mo’s best friend Dale Earnhardt Johnson III, and this is Mo’s other best friend, Harm Crenshaw. We’d love to have cake with you.”
Dale is skilled in the art of dessert diplomacy.
“Have a seat, then,” Miss Bessie said, smiling at Dale as we filed in. “We’ll use the good plates. This is my aunt Mabel’s recipe.”
Dale trailed her to the kitchen.
Harm looked at me, his eyes puzzled. “Cake? Now?” he whispered as Dale said something in the kitchen and Miss Bessie laughed.
“It’s the way people do things,” I said. He folded onto the sofa as I walked the room, studying the polished upright piano, The Last Supper over the fireplace, the old jars lined up along the mantel.
I tried to look polite as Miss Bessie and Dale served the cake. Dale and Harm dug in and complimented the cook. I could barely swallow. Our chat died away. A silence stretched out long and soft as an old cat. “You want to know about Josie,” she said.
“Yes ma’am,” I said, scooting forward. “I do.”
She looked down at her napkin. “Josie stayed with me during the flood, but she doesn’t live here anymore,” she said. “I’ve seen some ugly nights in my life, but that first night was the worst. I was lucky. My yard’s only a few feet higher than most, but that made the difference between the kind of damage men repair, and the kind can’t nobody touch but God. Josie stayed with me for three days.”
Just three days?
“Do you have her address?” I asked. “I know it’s been a long time, but . . .”
Her eyes went a deeper shade of blue. “The hurricane swallowed the telephone lines, drowned the electricity. Gobbled up the roads. No way to call in or get out unless you had a boat. Helicopters flew over hour after hour for two weeks.”
“Two weeks? But you said three days.” Harm reached over and took my hand.
Miss Bessie looked at him, and then me. “All we had was us, and we had to stay put until the rivers went down, or the military came.” I nodded. “A neighbor went out in his rowboat that first night, pounding on doors, looking for neighbors. He found Josie clinging to a timber, weak as a half-drowned kitten. Scratched up, mostly, bruised. A twisted ankle. I was the closest dry house. He brought her to me. She was a sweet little thing, no bigger than a minute. Slept all day the first day. Then she woke up asking for you.”
Me. She asked for me.
She clasped her hands. “Second day she ate my soup, sat up in the bed. Got up and walked around the house. Sat right there where you’re sitting,” she said, and a chill whispered up my spine. “Ate at the table where we cut this cake. Looked out these windows. Didn’t talk about anything but you.”
She looked at me. “You have her smile,” she said, and laughed. “And her hair, God bless you.” She drew a breath and let it out slow. “That night, a fever came on her, from the floodwater, most likely. She asked for pen and paper. I did everything for her I could, but the next day, she was gone.”
“Gone?” I repeated. I blinked very hard, trying to stay behind my eyes. “Gone where? Did the helicopters come, or a boat? Or . . .”
“Gone, baby,” she said, her voice soft. “Gone, the way people go. I’m sorry.”
Inside, I fell lost and sweeping, like a leaf set loose from its tree.
We sat for an eternity, maybe, and then she rose and took my hand. “Let me show you her room.” She pulled me down the dim hall to a regular bedroom. Regular whitewashed slat-board walls. Regular blue-and-white curtains over two sparkling windows, regular bed. Regular chest of drawers, regular mirror, regular braided rug on a pine floor.
All of it regular, except Upstream Mother saw and touched and knew it.
I looked into the mirror, surprised by the pale of my face. Dale and Harm hovered in the doorway behind me.
“Take your time,” Miss Bessie said, smoothing the bedspread—the old-timey kind, with the stand-up swirls in the center. “Stay as long as you like and come back often as you will. I only knew Josie a few days, but I wish I’d known her longer. And better. And I wish I could have done more.”
She’s gone, I thought, flown away without me. She left me in this crazy world alone.
I stared out the window, trying to breathe myself steady. I stood and I breathed, and I watched the orange sun dive for the horizon.
Who sped up the sun?
“Mo,” Dale said, touching on my arm. “We got to go.”
“We can come back,” Harm said, his voice teetering. “Any day you want. But Lavender’s waiting. People will worry.”
“I don’t want to leave her,” I said, but I let them pull me down the hall.
Miss Bessie jumped up from her rocker. “Josie left something for you,” she said, walking to an old jar on her mantel. “She knew you’d find her one day. I knew it too.”
I stared through its bubbled, watery glass, at the note curled inside.
“Read it, Mo,” Dale said, reaching for the jar.
“No,” Miss Bessie said, her voice quick. She handed the jar to me, her eyes kind. “Where’s your family? I know you have one, from the way you walked in here like you own earth and sky. Where are your people?”
“Home,” I said. The café felt a million light-years away and my heart felt small and fast as hummingbird wings.
She stared into my eyes. “Read this at home with your people.”
Home. My people.
“Did she . . . did Josie ever hug you?” I asked, my voice wavering like a ghost.
“Yes,” she said, opening her arms. “And she left this hug waiting for you.”
* * *
Dear Upstream Mother,
Miss Lana read your letter to me and the
Colonel tonight, her voice unhurried and sad and warm. We sat on the settee together, so close, we could feel each other breathe.
We thought about you for a long time.
The Colonel kissed me good-night and called me Soldier and Miss Lana tucked me in like she did when I was little. “You found her, sugar,” she said. “And we all know The Law of Finders Keepers. What you find is yours to keep. Forever.”
Mo
Chapter Thirty-two
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday
Dear Upstream Mother
Miss Lana closed the café, to give our hearts time to catch their breath. She pushed the Treasure Opening back too.
Not even the sky’s the right color in a world without you.
Usually we feed Tupelo Landing, but all day people came to our door bringing us food, in honor of you. Dale and Harm came just to say hello. Lavender brought a pie. I ate it when the clock said time to eat, but I couldn’t find its taste.
Mo
Dear Upstream Mother,
Tonight the moon is slight. People say the dark of the moon makes time go thin, and shrinks the space between waking and dreaming.
Please come see me in my dreams. I will look for you.
Mo
Dear Upstream Mother,
My words have flown away with you.
Mo
Chapter Thirty-three
Thursday: The Comfort of Friends and Enemies
Tap tap tap. “Mo,” Dale called, tapping at my door. “It’s us.”
I sat up on my bed and tossed Volume 7 aside. “Come in.”
Dale stepped in, Harm easing in behind him. “Hey. Miss Lana says you’re coming to school tomorrow.” He held out a pie as Queen Elizabeth collapsed on my dirty sweatshirt collection. “Mama sends her love. Again. So does Bill. And me and Liz. And Lavender.”
Harm set a potted pansy on my desk. “Us too,” he said, and handed me a cold plastic-wrapped lump. “I made fudge. Gramps says come for dinner when you want.”
I squeezed some Normal into my voice. “Thanks. Let’s cut this pie.”
Minutes later we settled in with plates and forks. “Bill made this one a snig Cajun but he says he’ll make you a boudin sweet potato pie next,” Dale said. “It’s wide-open Cajun.” He licked his fork. “Mama says I shouldn’t ask, but Liz has been worried sick about your letter and I . . .”
“You don’t have to tell us if you don’t want to,” Harm said, very quick.
My feelings scattered like faded confetti. I waited for them to settle. “I read it with Miss Lana and the Colonel when we got home that night, and I’ve read it myself every day since. I want to read it with you too. Only . . . not yet,” I added as someone rapped at the door.
Harm leaned and swung it open. Attila stepped in like an Earth kid stepping onto Mars.
Her gaze flitted from my Charleston snow globes to my hair. “You have a lovely home,” she said, stiff as Styrofoam. “Miss Retzyl asked Harm and Dale to bring your math homework by, but they forgot. So I brought it.”
Harm and Dale would eat raw liver before they brought me homework.
“Great,” I lied. “Thanks.” She went quiet and still.
She hadn’t said a word as we’d pedaled from Miss Bessie’s to Lavender’s truck either. As Dale whispered our story to Lavender, she’d combed her hair like she couldn’t hear.
She climbed in the cab with me and Lavender, who put his arm around me. He smelled like motor oil and lemon drops. I wouldn’t have cried except his breath went tight, and when I looked up at him, his eyes shimmered in the dashboard’s glow.
Attila had sniffled too, staring out the window so we wouldn’t see. Her reflection had given her away.
I set my pie plate by my Elvis in Vegas lamp. “Anna,” I said, “thanks for . . .”
“I didn’t do much,” she said. “I had a minute while Mother was out, so I thought I’d bike by.” She dropped my homework on my desk and headed for the door.
“Wait,” I said, and took a deep breath. “Anna, your bike seat’s too low. That’s why you have such a hard time pedaling. We could raise it, if you want.”
Her eyes went wide. “They’re adjustable?”
It’s amazing, the things people know and the things they don’t.
“Right,” Harm said, heading for the kitchen. “I’ll grab a wrench.”
Ten minutes later, she pedaled away on a bike that fit her but was still stupid. A little later Dale and Harm zipped home too, Queen Elizabeth loping at Dale’s side.
Homework. Might as well get it over with, I thought, unfolding the pages.
She had filled in the answers for me, and added a green sticky note.
I am sorry for your loss. Attila
Chapter Thirty-four
Our Treasure Grand Opening
Grand Opening Saturday broke frosty and still, the grasses dreaming diamonds and the trees glittering jewels. The Colonel refused to wear an eye patch, of course, but Miss Lana went all-out pirate décor in the café: Coconuts by the cash register, black tablecloths, blood-red candles.
Lavender pulled up at nine, the copper-covered treasure cube weighing his rear bumper down. “Morning, mateys,” he said, swaggering in. Miss Lana smoothed her dark Ava Gardner wig and swished her black skirt at him. Lavender touched her gold earring and gave her a wicked smile. “Is this a clip-on, wench?”
She laughed, took it off, and clipped it to his ear.
If any man ever looked better in a earring, he ain’t been to Tupelo Landing.
Dale and Harm blasted in. “Get ready to be rich,” Dale said, and vaulted onto the stool beside Lavender. “We can wait another week if you need it, Mo. We won’t be popular, but we never are anyway.”
“Sometimes the best thing for a broken heart is to keep moving,” I said. “Let’s roll.”
“Hey, Mo,” Bill Glasgow called, walking in with Miss Rose. “What’s cooking?”
“Avast,” I replied. “This morning we got a Shipwreck Special—a crash-up of eggs with stowaway cheddar, plus cat-o’-nine-tails sweet potato fries and ketchup.”
“Perfect,” Miss Rose said, and gave me a hug.
“Mo,” Bill said. “I know you have reporters coming, but Blackbeard’s treasure is history. I’d shoot photos for you, only I’m not old enough to use that box camera.”
“I am,” Grandmother Miss Lacy said, breezing in with Mr. Red. “Did you hear the news, dear? Red’s in business again. He’s starting a boutique distillery, using his old recipe.”
“Red and Grandson Unlimited,” Mr. Red said. “A lot can happen in a week.”
Understatement, I thought.
The café filled. Joe Starr and Miss Retzyl at their usual table. The Azalea Women. The sixth grade. Jake and Jimmy Exum with Hannah Greene and her sisters. A carload of strangers who’d caught wind of our find.
Sal set up a projector on the counter, and Dale opened a screen in front of the jukebox.
At ten, Miss Lana tossed her apron to the counter and the Colonel closed the kitchen. “Showtime,” she whispered, and I hopped onto my Pepsi crate. The café rustled to silence.
“Welcome to our Treasure Grand Opening,” I said. “I know you’re all excited to—”
“Morning, people,” Gabriel interrupted, sauntering in with Kat on his arm.
Weird. First he helps raise the treasure for free; now he turns up for the opening of a treasure that ain’t his, and a possible trip to jail. What’s he up to?
I looked at Harm, who shrugged. Kat unzipped her purple near-leather jacket and draped it on the back of her chair. “Congratulations, Desperados,” she said. “I wish I was striking it rich today, but if it’s not me I’m glad it’s my son.”
She wants a mother’s slice of the treasure, I thought, looking at Harm.
Unlikely.
&
nbsp; “Mo,” an Azalea Woman called. “Did you really find a letter from your long-lost mother? The café’s been closed, so we haven’t had a chance to ask.”
I gave her a faux smile and a double-dip of silence.
She turned to Attila. “You were there, Anna. Fill us in?”
Crud. Here it comes: the Upstream Mother Announce-ment I’m not ready to make.
“For heaven’s sake, Anna,” Mrs. Simpson said, looking at her daughter. “You were with Mo? On the cul-de-sac, we prefer not to mix with . . . some people.”
Sal adjusted her beret and rose. “Excuse me,” she said, “but according to my research, cul-de-sac is French for bottom-of-the-bag.”
Mrs. Simpson huffed. Attila almost smiled.
“Focus,” Dale whispered, and I dove into our case.
“Strange things have happened in the race for this treasure,” I said. “Some said it was Blackbeard’s curse. We borderline believed it ourselves—for a while,” I said as Tinks pulled up outside. He smoothed his red tie and blue Sunday suit, and walked in carrying a Piggly Wiggly bag.
“Dale, our evidence box?” I asked. He thumped our crate on a front table and pushed the RESERVED sign aside.
I pulled out our plaster of paris footprint casts. I held them high. “We found these footprints outside Harm’s window the night he was robbed. They’re exactly like this Colonial boot,” I said as Harm gently lifted Peg-Leg’s boot onto the counter and tilted it, to show its tacked-on sole.
The crowd murmured.
“Was Blackbeard’s ghost standing at the window? Somebody wanted us to think so,” I said, glancing at Gabriel. “But Blackbeard wasn’t there. These were a re-enactor’s boots,” I said. I nodded to Sal, at the projector.
She clicked a photo of young Tinks in his re-enactment uniform onto the screen.
“I wore them,” Tinks admitted, and pulled the shoes out of his bag.
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